Mad Love
by Arkham's Incurable
Summary: When the Joker sees an opportunity to break someone, he usually lunges at the chance. With Dr. Harleen Quinzel, it's different. He doesn't want to break her mind, he wants to bend it and bring her down to his level. He wants to take the young Arkham doctor and turn her against the very sanity she works towards. It's a slow process, but the results are so much more... rewarding.
1. First Impressions

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Batman, nor do I own any of the wonderful characters in the movies, television shows, comics, etc. However, there are a few of my own original characters that I made up to fill in various minor roles along the way, those of which I do own, and this piece of writing itself is mine, so please don't take, use, repost, etc., etc. without my permission. With that being said, I hope you enjoy!

**Side Note:** Despite its title, this story does not directly follow the storyline portrayed in the comic or the episode of the animated series entitled "Mad Love." This is my own spin on a Nolanverse version of Harley Quinn, but I liked and thought that the title "Mad Love" was just so fitting that I decided to use it.

**Rating:** I'm only going to rate this story T, but younger readers be warned of disturbing themes (as this is the story of Dr. Harleen Quinzel's decent into madness, and descending into madness is never pretty), violence, and language.

* * *

_Take a breath_  
_Hold it in_  
_Start a fight_  
_You won't win_  
**Breaking Benjamin, _What Lies Beneath_**

I make my way down the dreary, ill lit hallway of Blackgate Prison. For the past six hours I've been psychoanalyzing the buildup of undiagnosed inmates, determining whether or not they were fit for prison life or care at Arkham Asylum. The patients, however, grew no less rowdy at this information and continued to interrupt my questioning and analyzing with derogatory remarks and crude statements. Not to mention that some of them were incoherent all together.

To put it quite plainly, I hate this part of the job and try to avoid it at all costs. I love my job at Arkham and the patients there aren't the nicest either, but dealing with the Blackgate inmates was a whole other story. I believed that the patients at Arkham could be helped, but the inmates here… I wasn't so sure.

I've only been stuck with this job three or four times before in the past, but today I seemed to have drawn the short end of the stick. The analyst that had been here this morning is currently in surgery at the newly rebuilt Gotham Memorial Hospital. An inmate somehow managed to lodge a pen halfway into his stomach. A _felt_ tipped pen. The other doctors at Arkham were all too focused on the newest addition to the asylum: the Scarecrow, otherwise known as Dr. Jonathan Crane, to come here. This, of course, left me to come down here and do the dirty work.

I glance down at the chart that the guards gave me as I briskly move towards the last door on the right. I breathe in a sigh of relief when I see that I'm on my last patient of the day. I quickly scan over the basic information to find out that Carsen Evans is a policeman gone awry. He killed three of his fellow men in blue, attempted to murder his wife, and had been aiming a rocket launcher, with the full intention of using it, towards a series of police vehicles when he was finally apprehended. From what I gathered, Carsen Evans didn't seem to be a very nice man.

I scan the temporary badge they gave me at the door and the scanner makes a loud beep as it unlocks. I pull the door open and I'm faced with the familiar sight of an inmate being strapped to a steel cot. Like most inmates I've seen today, this one doesn't seem to be too happy about it.

"Good afternoon," I greet with professional courtesy. "My name is Dr. Quinzel, I'm going to be doing some psychoanalyst testing on you. This is to see if you would be in better hands here or at Arkham Asylum."

He spits at me, which I easily avoid, and begins to struggle beneath his restraints. The restraints pull upwards with him, straining against his wrists and ankles. I write his name at the top of a blank page on my clipboard and hover my felt tipped pen over the next line down. _Here we go_.

"Let's start out with some word association," I suggest, although he doesn't really have a choice. "I'll say a word and you tell me what pops into your head, okay?" He responds with angrily resisting and tugging at his restraints. "What's the first thing that comes to mind when I say law enforcement?"

"Fucking _pigs_," he growls in response. "I used to be one of 'em. The best really. If I could get out these restraints I'd show you just how good."

"What comes to mind when I say regret?" I continue to question, ignoring his previous commentary. Threats were a common courtesy around here. He grumbles angrily towards me and continues to thrash. "I know that you don't want to be here talking to me right now, but the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner you can get out these restraints. Okay?" I ask, trying a compassionate approach.

"Okay," he agrees, giving a hard tug at his restraints. In one swift motion, his hands slide free of the cuffs and he heaves upwards, angling his body towards his feet. His hands claw at the foot restraints, roughly beginning to undo them.

My clipboard clatters to the floor as I leap from the chair, my hands automatically reaching for the sedative in my coat pocket. I hurriedly pull it out and tear the cap off. I tap the syringe once and give it a small squirt, then make a run towards the door. Getting out of the room and leaving this mess to the guards is my main goal. Getting close enough to use the sedatives, on the other hand, is my last resort. I'm not sure just how easy it would be to sedate a 6'4, 200 pound, police trained convict.

There's a thud as Carsen's feet hit the floor, successfully free of his restraints. I'm almost to the door, only about five or so feet away from it. I hear the grim sound of his feet padding on the floor behind me, trying to catch up.

He throws himself towards me, hurtling us both against the wall. I take most of the impact, or more specifically, the right side of my head does. My vision goes fuzzy and Carsen, hardly fazed by the ordeal, grabs me around the neck and begins to squeeze. I claw at his hands, pinching and scratching, but he doesn't budge.

I bring my knee up hard, successfully hitting him in the groin. He eases up just enough for me to shove him off of me, allowing just enough room for me to slip past him. I slide through the gap between us and back as far away from him as I can, eyeing the door that he happens to be blocking.

"Only one person's getting out of here, doc," he tells me. "I'll be needing that ID of yours to leave."

"Listen to me Carsen," I begin, holding up my hands in a nonthreatening gesture. "You don't have to do this. You're only making it harder on yourself. I know you don't want to live this way. I know you feel bad about hurting your friends. But killing me or the guards or escaping from here isn't going to fix that grief."

"Don't tell me about grief," he snarls, lunging towards me. My instincts take over and I flip to the side, swiftly avoiding his tackle. I land on my feet about a foot away from him, narrowly missing being crushed against the far wall. I don't think I've ever valued my gymnastics skills this much in my entire life.

I seize the split second when his back is turned towards me to jump onto it. I latch myself onto him with a vicelike grip, clinging to his neck with one hand and desperately grabbing for the sedative with the other. He growls something unidentifiable at me and savagely jerks his head back.

The back of his head collides with my nose, sending an explosion of pain throughout it. There's a cracking sound and I feel my nose begin to trickle blood. He uses my moment of brief distraction to ram his back, with me clinging onto it, against the wall. My head and my back hit it hard, but I refuse to let go.

I pull the syringe out of my pocket and drive it into his neck, slamming the plunger down before he can claw the needle out. The now empty syringe clatters to the floor as I loosen my hold on him and drop to the ground, barely catching myself. He lets out a disgruntled howl and rushes at me, but not before the sedative begins to kick in.

Halfway towards me, he stumbles a bit and then falls completely. He twitches for a few moments, fighting the drug, then falls limp. I stand up slowly, eyeing his unconscious body warily. I nudge him in the ribs with the tip of my shoe, but he appears to be out of it.

Now safe from being attacked any further, I probe at the right side and back of my head gently, trying to determine whether or not I have a concussion. I decide against it, although both parts of my head are swollen up like a goose egg and the hit to my forehead seems to have broken the skin. My nose is definitely broken, I decide, and will probably need to be snapped back into place.

I take a few deep breaths, pick up my fallen clipboard, and make my way over to the locked door. I let out a sigh, today was turning out _great_.

* * *

Two hours, that's how long I was stuck in the prison filling out paperwork and being looked over in the infirmary. As well-known as Blackgate is for not following protocol, the extensive amount of paperwork was surprising. Although, I had the sneaking suspicion that they didn't want a lawsuit to upturn some questionable stones in their facility.

Besides the paperwork, a good chunk of that two hours was spent at the infirmary. I assured them that I was fine and could fix myself up at home, but they insisted that they do it instead. Despite my four years of med school, I had to have my nose snapped back into place by an infirmary doctor and be rechecked for a concussion. After that, they slapped a piece of medical tape on my nose, cleaned the blood off my face, gave me some more papers to sign, and then sent me on my way.

I'm halfway out the door when one of the guards stops me. "Ms. Quinzel?" he questions, coming over to me.

"That's me," I confirm. _What now_?

"The cops just brought in an inmate that needs to be psychoanalyzed immediately," he tells me. "They said that they need to know if they should bring him to Arkham right away or prepare a cell for him in the prison."

"I'm sorry, but you're going to have to get them to send someone else down here. I'm not really fit to be psychoanalyzing at the moment, my boss wouldn't want me to." Sure, I didn't _want_ to analyze anyone, but my reasoning wasn't a total lie. We were always being told never to talk to patients, potential or not, on a really bad day or after something stirring. Some of the patients had a tendency to feed off of whatever they could to get a rise out of the doctors.

"Dr. Jeremiah Arkham?" the guard asks.

"That's the one."

"My boss just spoke to him." _Oh great_. "He cleared you for this one. He said it's vital that you analyze this inmate now, when he's at his most vulnerable."

"Who exactly is this inmate?" I question.

"I don't know, I told you everything that they told me. Judging by the urgency, I'd say that this criminal is pretty important to the police," he muses. "I'll take you up to the fifth floor now, that's where they're holding him."

"Alright," I sigh, giving into the whims of Jeremiah Arkham once again. Work always seemed to find me after hours. The guard leads me past the several stages of security and towards an elevator. He unlocks it and leads us silently up to the fifth floor, where I'm faced with several police officers.

"Ms. Quinzel," one calls, breaking through the crowd of officers. I recognize the familiar face of Jim Gordon, one of the leading detectives on the GCPD. Although I've never personally met the man, I've seen him enough on TV to feel as though I've got some understanding of his character.

"Lieutenant Gordon," I greet.

"It's Commissioner now, thanks to the great work of everyone here. We finally got that bastard." He points towards one of the steel holding room doors, where my mysterious patient undoubtedly lies. They must've caught one of the big criminals of Gotham, judging by the relief and triumph on all of the officers faces.

"Who's in there? All they've told me is that it's vital for him to be analyzed tonight."

"We caught the Joker," he tells me, smiling proudly. "We finally got him."

"The Joker?" I repeat in disbelief. "Commissioner, I've only been working at Arkham for two and a half years, I can't analyze the Joker. I'm just a resident psychiatrist."

He places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Treat him like you would any other inmate and most importantly, try not to let him get inside your head. He's been trying that with some of the cops on the force, so be sure not to slip anything too personal into the conversation. He's restrained, but there will be two guards in the room with you just in case. Do you have anything potentially harmful on you?"

"Just my glasses, they took my other personal belongings at the front desk."

"Your glasses are fine," he tells me. "Dr. Quinzel, not that I think you're going to do this, but when you make your decision, please don't allow personal opinion to factor in. We've had several problems in the past with Arkham psychiatrists doing such things."

I'm tempted to remind him that most of those psychiatrists are now locked up in that said asylum. "I understand," I tell him politely. "I'm going to judge the best place for him by his results, not by a matter of personal preference."

"Well, now that that's settled, I'll let you get started. These are for you to take notes," he hands me a clipboard with paper to write on and a felt tipped pen. Gordon steps aside and I make my way over to the steel door, shoulder's squared. I take a deep breath and open the door.

"Hello," I greet, briefly noticing the two guards standing sternly against the far wall. My eyes travel over to the man who's strapped to a steel cot in front of them, and I resist the urge to gasp or gawk. The Joker is _much_ more disconcerting in person than on the news. His presence, although he hasn't even turned his head to look at me yet, is practically dominating the room.

For Gotham's latest and greatest villain, he appears to be quite disheveled, although it seems somehow appropriate. His greasepaint is smeared and smudged, with blotches of it missing altogether. His hair is rather unruly and the color looks terrible in the harsh light, not to mention it looks as though it hasn't been washed in weeks. There's a few bruises on the side of his face that I can see, all in various stages of healing. Some of the bruises, however, look as though they've been delivered recently.

"My name's Dr. Harleen Quinzel," I tell him, gathering myself.

"_Harleeeeen_ _Quinzel_," he muses, testing the name on his tongue. "What a nice name. Rework it a bit and you get-"

"Harley Quinn," I finish for him. "Like the clown harlequin, I know." I walk over to him slowly, reluctant to leave my spot near the door. "I'm a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. I'm here to analyze your mental health and decide if you would be in better hands here or at Arkham."

"Called in late just for me? I'm flattered."

"That's right," I tell him, taking my seat in the chair beside him. He turns his head now, finally able to get a good look at me. His eyes bore into mine with a startling intensity and despite the urge to, I don't look away. He turns his head back to the center of the steel cot that he's tied to, breaking the intense stare.

"You look like you've have a bad day, doc."

"I could say the same for you, Mr.…?"

"J. You can call me Mr. J," he tells me with a smile. It's disconcerting, his smile, something about it feels… dangerous and mischievous. I can't place my finger on it.

"So, Mr. J, let's start with some word association. I'll say a word and-"

"Who gave 'em to you?"

"I'm sorry?" I question, caught off guard.

"The marks on your face. Who, uh, gave 'em to you?"

"I'm not here to talk about me," I tell him, attempting to avoid the question. "We're here to talk about you."

"Tell you what, I'll cut you a deal," he offers slyly. "You answer my questions and I'll do your little, uh, word association." He smacks his lip in conclusion, his tongue darting at the corners of his mouth. I faintly wonder if it's a force of habit or if it's because the scars irritate the skin that rests there.

"I'm not allowed to cut deals, Mr. J," I tell him firmly, keeping my tone purely professional.

"It'll be our little secret," he promises with a smile. I glance briefly over at guards, who stand with their arms crossed. Right, it'll just be between us and the two guards over there. How reassuring.

"Alright, fine," I agree. Gordon said I wasn't supposed to tell him anything personal, but he wanted me to get accurate results, didn't he? I couldn't do both. Besides, what was the Joker going to do with the information that I got beat up? Call me a wimp?

"I was attacked by an inmate earlier today. He managed to get out of his restraints during our session," I tell him honestly. "Now, I'm going to say a word and I want you to tell me the first thing that pops into your head." I think back to all of the news stories that I'd seen about him to find a good word. Typically we aren't supposed to use words that stray from the normal list, unless we know enough about the inmate to use something personal that would give us insight into their mind. However, I doubted that the Joker would react at all to the "normal" list, so the information I gathered from the news would have to do.

"Let's start with chaos," I suggest.

"It's not a tricky thing to bring about, all you've got to do is upset the established order, stray away from the "_plan_." And you know what they say about chaos?"

"What?"

"It's _fair_." I make brief note of his reply on my clipboard, already intrigued by his thought process. "Why aren't you in the, uh, _morgue_?"

"What do you mean by that?" I inquire, caught off guard again.

"How'd they get the inmate off of ya?" he clarifies. "No offense, doc, but you don't exactly look like fighting material."

"I managed to sedate him," I reply simply. The Joker clucks his tongue in response, his eyes studying me. "What comes to mind when I say rules?"

"The only sensible way to live in this world is _without_ them, a concept I don't think Batman truly understands yet. He think his rules will save him, keep him from becoming like _me_. They won't and it's not just him either, it's nearly everyone in this city. All the things that make them whole, that make them _good,_ are like a bad joke. When the chips are down and the masks are off, their morals, their codes, their _rules_, they'll all be dropped, forgotten."

"That's an awfully twisted view on society," I observe.

He lets out a sharp bark of laughter. "We live in an awfully twisted society."

One of the guards clears their throat loudly. "The police said they wanted this done quickly," the guard informs me sharply from across the room. Five minutes was hardly enough time for a proper analysis, especially with someone like the Joker.

"I'll be done in just a minute," I call back, not so sure that this will be enough for a complete and proper analysis. Oh well, I'd have to make do with what I had so far, unless I could squeeze in another word association. "Alright, last one-"

"Ah-ta-_ta_," he interjects. "It's my turn. Tell me, Harley, what's the _worst_ thing you've ever done?"

"Please address me by Dr. Quinzel," I request firmly. "I believe that bad things are in the eye of the beholder. What some may consider good, the police may consider bad. What the police might consider good, some might consider bad. It's all a matter of relevance," I answer vaguely, swiftly avoiding the question.

One eyebrow goes up, but he doesn't fight me on my answer.

"What comes to mind when I say Batman?" I ask, uncertain that I made the right choice in picking that particular word. It could stir up some serious emotions, not that it would be a bad thing for the analysis, but I'm slightly worried.

"Ah, the _Batman_." There's a faint fondness in the tone of his voice, which is the opposite of what I'd been expecting "Now there's a stubborn man. He's got all these rules, all of these morals, and it won't do him any good, not in the long run really. His whole existence is a paradox. He dresses up to fight crime, when really it attracts _freaks_, like me."

"Why do you say you're a freak?"

"Oh, I'm not. I'm no_t_," he pops the last t. "To everyone out there I am, including Batman. No, no, I _know_ that I'm not a freak. I'm just ahead of the curve." His tongue darts at the inside of his cheeks, probing at his scars. "Ya want to know the difference between why heroes and criminals wear masks?"

"Sure."

"Bad guys wear a mask because they don't want to get caught, they're looking out for themselves. Heroes, on the other hand, they wear a mask to, uh, _protect_ the people they care about. The funny thing is, the mask _never_ works. I showed Batman that, but I don't think he really saw the, uh, the big picture. His rules, they sometimes keep him from truly seeing the, uh, _message_. He'll always have his little rules," the Joker tells me with a dramatic sigh, "but that's what makes it _fun_."

"You don't wear a mask," I point out, trying to shift the subject away from Batman and back to him.

"I'm on my own side," he tells me. "And on my side, there's nothing to protect and nothing to lose."

"Doesn't that get lonely after a while?"

"Having nothing to lose really opens up the world," he tells me. I wait for him to elaborate, but it soon becomes apparent that he won't.

"Well, it was nice meeting you Mr. J," I tell him politely, standing up slowly. "I'll take some time to review your session, then I'll tell the guards my decision. You should know the results in about half an hour." I make my way over to the door, almost already certain of the decision I'll make. I scan my ID, but as my hand goes to open the door, the Joker's voice floats over to me.

"Goodbye, _Harley_."


	2. Breaking Dr Arkham

_They fall in line  
One at a time  
Ready to play_  
**Breaking Benjamin, _Blow Me Away_**

I stare blankly at the computer screen in front of me, like I have been for the past hour. The word document that I type up will arguably be one of the most important documents in the Joker's entire file. It will be the first document, the first analysis, and the first record in his Arkham file. I'm the first person to psychoanalyze him, the first person who decided that it was in his best interest to be put in Arkham. My shoulders are heavy with the weight of importance and despite all of this, my word document is, for the most part, blank. All that I've written down are the basics, which will probably be changed as soon as I turn it in anyway.

**Name: Unknown. Refers to himself as the Joker.  
Age: 28-32 (DOB unknown)  
Height: 6'1  
Weight: 160**  
**Condition Upon Arrival: Minor cuts and bruises. No serious injuries.**

Everything else on the document is blank. I keeping trying to word my thoughts on his mental health, but I can't seem to find the right words to describe him. I can't find the right diagnosis either. It's as if he studied the definitions of every possible mental health disorder and made it so that he didn't fit any of them.

I'm so focused on racking my brains for at least _something _that I don't hear my phone ringing until it's at the fourth ring. "Hello?" I answer, not bothering to check the caller ID.

"Hey Harls," the familiar voice of my best friend Pamela Isley greets me. "Why are you still up?"

"Why did you call if you thought that I was going to be a sleep?" I challenge in response, rubbing my probably bloodshot eyes. Physically, I'm exhausted and feel like I could sleep for week, but my mind's racing. Even if my mind and my body coincided with each other, I'd have to stay up and finish this frustrating report anyway.

"I was going to leave a message," she replies innocently. "Anyways, since you're already up… why don't you come on over. I've got a new batch of antidotes for you."

"Alright," I sigh, giving in. "I need a break anyway, but I'm bringing my work over." She sighs loudly on the other end of the phone and I have the feeling that a lecture's coming.

"You work too much, Harls," she tells me pointedly.

"Red," I warn, using the nickname that revolved around her fiery red hair. "Don't start."

"Fine, fine, bring your work over," she surrenders. "I just think it's a little much, that's all. I mean, it is after midnight."

"Work that needs to get done doesn't go away just because you've punched out for the day," I mumble into the phone. "I'll see you in twenty minutes. Don't try to kill me when I come up to the front door."

"That was one time," Pam retorts flatly. "_One_ time."

* * *

I make my way down to Pam's "hideout," which is a ratty, run down abandoned house on the edge of town. The entire area's practically deserted, making it an ideal hideout for criminals. Cops hardly ever roll through here, but when they do, their search is far from thorough. I'm surprised that no one else from Gotham's underground has taken refuge here. Or maybe they have, the point of a hideout is to hide after all.

"Pam," I call, stepping through the barely standing front door. I pass through the main room and enter one of the far back doors to find her watering several indoor hanging plants. "Pam," I repeat. She doesn't respond, too lost in her world of gardening. "I'll be in the den," I tell her with a sigh, glancing back at her transfixed figure one last time, looking for any indication that she had heard me, before finally leaving.

I exit her miniature indoor garden and go down to the farthest room on the right, otherwise known as the den. The den isn't really much of a den at all, it's more like a cross between a living room and a bedroom. There's a twin mattress shoved up against the far left corner of the room, which had come from an undisclosed source. A recliner and two sofa's sit around a coffee table in relatively good condition, all of which were undoubtedly stolen somewhere along the way. There's a long since working fireplace that's missing several of its stones against the right wall and beside it, tucked away in the right corner, is a small TV running on stolen cable.

I plant myself in the scratchy, half torn recliner and open up the psychology textbook I brought. The Joker wouldn't be an exact match for any of these definitions, I knew that, but maybe he'd fit one just enough for me to have some sort of diagnosis. I sigh aloud, half wondering if I can get away with just writing that he "suffers from a distorted view of society."

"She even brought a textbook," Pam mutters, entering the den.

Ignoring her more than usual commentary, I ask, "So, what's this antidote you want me to take?" She was always creating new toxins or fatal spores or producing pheromones to harm the non-eco-friendly world with. Her "antidotes" (which were really concoctions that made the taker immune to whatever it was she had created) typically involved me getting poked with a sharp, questionable needle.

"It's just a precaution, in case things get a little out of hand," she replies with a shrug.

"What are you planning?" I inquire, not sure if I really want to know the answer.

"It's in your best interest that you don't know," she tells me with a wink. She usually says that when her plans involve murder, whether it be potential or planned. She usually spares me all of the bloody details, knowing that I don't want to hear them.

"That bad?" I muse.

"It'll be good for the plants and that's all that matters. I'll be right back." Pam abruptly leaves the room and I go back to mulling over psychiatric disorders. I pass the A section of disorders far too quickly for comfort and move onto the B section. Bipolar Disorder could be possible, but I hadn't spent enough time with the Joker to see or hear any symptoms. I mark it down in the notebook that I brought and put a question mark beside it.

"Harley," Pam snaps, breaking me out of my concentration. I look up to see that she's standing in front of me with a syringe full of greenish clear liquid in her hand.

"I didn't hear you come in."

"Clearly, now put the book down and roll up your sleeve." I oblige, setting the book down on the coffee table and rolling up the left cuff of my red sleeve. She goes to jab me with the syringe, but I quickly stop her.

"Let me do that," I suggest, taking the syringe from her. I wince, pressing the needle into the vein at the crook of my arm. I push the plunger down slowly, allowing my body to get used to the new liquid. It burns a bit, but it's not as bad as some of the other antidotes that I've taken from her.

"I may not have an M.D., but I can use a needle," she informs me flatly.

"I wouldn't go around saying it like that if I were you," I tell her with a smirk, picking my textbook back up. "Did you already give Selina one of these?"

"Yes, but she's out of town this week. She said something about going to get new equipment. I gave her one just in case, but she was pretty certain that she wouldn't be needing it."

"That's good," I murmur, already submerged in my book again. "What kind of supplies is she getting?"

"Probably a new safe cracker or something like that," she replies, peering over my book. "What are you doing anyway? Trying to prove that someone has to be crazy to kick your ass?"

"Huh?" I ask, caught off guard by the question.

"You came in here with an angry red knot on your forehead and a piece of tape stretched across your swollen, purple nose. Did you think that I wouldn't notice?" she asks incredulously. "I'm not blind."

"Oh," I realize, touching the tape on my nose briefly. I wince at the pressure. "No, no, that's not what I'm doing. I've got to fill out a psychoanalysis report for a new Arkham transfer before I go to work tomorrow. Dr. Arkham wants it on his desk as soon as possible. However, this particular patient doesn't seem to fit any of these disorders."

"Sounds important," she notes. "If your new project didn't beat you up, then who did?"

"He's not my project. I'll probably never see him again, actually," I reply. It was true, I probably wouldn't ever see the Joker in person again. Dr. Arkham would have to be incredibly desperate to allow me, a resident psychiatrist, to treat the Joker. "As for the injuries, one of the inmates at Blackgate got out of his restraints while I was analyzing him."

"You say that like it's normal."

"It's all part of the job," I mumble. "At least all that I got was a broken nose and a bump on the head. The other analyst got a pen lodged halfway into his stomach," I retort. I flip through the C section of disorders with no luck and move onto the D's. I pause on Dissociative Identity Disorder, but quickly rule it out, leaving me ultimately empty handed.

In the H section, I land on Hypomania. From what I had seen on the news, he could very well be subjected to and act on euphoric or irritable moods. Hmm, but I wasn't entirely sure that he had Bipolar Disorder, which is what Hypomania is associated with. Then again, this specific manifestation of the disorder could be caused by sleep deprivation and the Joker didn't seem like a man who got much sleep to me. I mark it down in my notebook with a question mark beside it as well. So far, all I had were a bunch of maybes. I needed something more definite.

"How are you feeling?" Pam asks, breaking my train of thought. "Is the antidote burning or anything like that?"

"No, I feel fine so far. I'm getting a headache, but I think it's from the paperwork."

"If you're never going to see this patient again, then why are you diagnosing him?" she questions. "Isn't that going to be his psychiatrist's job?"

"Well, yes, but this is the first information that's going down in his file. I'm trying to give the other doctors something to work off of. Not to mention I have to give a valid reason as to why I transferred him to Arkham. That valid reason should have something to do with seeing signs of potential disorders," I respond, flipping to the next page in my book. Something immediately catches my eye.

Impulse Control Disorder, that fit, or at least some of it did. He acted on impulse, didn't he? I'm sure he has plans, or at least some vague idea of what he's doing, but he had talked about straying away from the "plan" at one point. He liked chaos, so surely impulse was involved in bringing that upon Gotham, right? I let out a sharp exhale, frustrated. I write it down in my notebook with a question mark beside it, just like all of the other ones, and move on.

"You need to take a break," Pam says flatly, picking up on my frustration.

"You're right," I sigh. "I'm overthinking this." I set my textbook down on the coffee table and rest my head against the back of the recliner. "I'll just write down my general thoughts and what I gathered from the analysis. This patient's mind is too... _complex_ to categorize."

* * *

"You don't have any definite possibilities as to why that _freak_ is crazy?" Dr. Arkham asks, half incredulous. In his hands rests my psychoanalysis report, the very report that kept me up all night.

"He's not a freak, he's a patient," I correct, trying my best to be polite about it. "I have possible reasons as to why he acts the way he does, but he doesn't seem to fit any disorders entirely. I know, I went through a textbook looking for something that fit."

"On what reason did you bring him to Arkham then?" he demands. "A whim?"

"He dresses up like a clown, blows up half the city, and burns thousands of dollars worth of money for fun. No, I did not go out on a whim." I take a deep breath, trying to rationally put my thoughts into words. "They didn't give me much time to talk to him, it wasn't enough for a complete analysis. I did what I could in the time that I had, but I had to fill in the rest of the blanks myself."

"You aren't supposed to analyze him by news coverage," he chides.

"They gave me just enough time to have him answer three word association questions. That's hardly enough time for an analysis at all." I take another deep breath, pushing my frustration aside. "I judged what I could from his answers. My thoughts on each one are in the file."

He sighs, rubbing his temples. "You did your best?"

"Yes, I did."

"Alright," he caves. "Thank you for the effort, Harleen. All I need for you to do now is to sign the transfer papers. I put them on your desk last night." Taking that as a dismissal, I turn to leave the room, but his voice halts me. "Oh, and Harleen," he calls.

"Yes?"

"When you finish signing those papers, take the rest of the day off. You look terrible and I mean that in the nicest way." I want to be offended by the statement, but deep down I know that he's rightfully concerned about my appearance. The patients would quickly pick up on the fact that I had a long night from my appearance and they might try to use that information to get under my skin. It wouldn't work, not on me anyway, but still. "Oh, but if you want to watch the Joker's first session before you leave, it's going to be at ten. The doctors are going to gather in room 228 on the sixth floor to watch the live footage."

"Who's going to be his doctor?" I ask curiously.

"I am," he replies. "I figured I might as well take the first crack at him. Make sure you get those transfer papers on my desk before five, that's when I'm clocking out."

"Will do," I assure him. I exit his office and make my way down to the third floor. I scan myself into the last corridor and enter my office, which is the second door on the left. The first thing that I notice on my desk isn't the transfer files, instead it's a single red rose in a slim glass vase.

I stride over to it and pick up the tag that dangles from the stem of the flower. "Come see me, -J," I read aloud. Immediately, my mind comes up with the assumption that the Joker put this here. I quickly reject the idea, knowing that he couldn't have been in my office. He simply hadn't been here long enough to slip out of his cell or pay off a guard. It had to be some kind of joke from the staff making fun of the fact that the Joker had let me call him Mr. J, although I'm not quite sure how they would know that. If it wasn't a joke, then it had to be from a secret admirer on the staff whose name started with the letter J.

I duck my head out the door to see Dr. Joan Leland walking by. "Dr. Leland," I call, stepping into the hallway.

"Yes, Harleen?"

"Did you happen to see anyone bringing in flowers this morning?"

"No, I'm afraid not," she replies. "Why?"

"Someone put a flower on my desk, but they didn't leave their name."

"Looks like you've got a secret admirer," she tells me with a smile. Dr. Leland usually got here pretty early, if she didn't see anyone then the delivery must've been pretty late. I bite my lip absentmindedly, running through possible explanations in my head.

"Do you know where they're holding the Joker?" I inquire, allowing myself to give into the possibility.

"He's on the fifth floor, block C, cell 281. Why?"

"I'm just wondering what floor I should be looking out for," I joke. She smiles, pats my shoulder, and then continues on her way. I debate for a long moment, then make my way over to the elevator. If anyone asked, I'd tell them that I was just checking up on the Joker, making sure that I had made the right decision in bringing him here. That was believable, right?

I soon find myself faced with the Plexiglas walls and steel doors of Cell Block C. I walk towards the end of the corridor, ignoring the loud remarks of some of the rowdier patients. My eyes watch each cell number above the doors on the left side pass. 271…273…275…277…279…281. I stop in my tracks, turning to face the Joker's cell. He lounges leisurely on the cot inside and a smile stretches across his face once he sees me. I can tell that they've cleaned him up since I last saw him, but I don't take the time to study him, too afraid that he might play off of the gesture.

"Would you care to explain how a flower came to be on my desk?" I question, getting straight to the point.

"I put it there," he replies simply from his laid back stance on the cot. His hands are tucked behind his head and he looks oddly at ease. Typically patients pace around or strike out at their cells when they're first admitted, not act as though they're on vacation. Then again, the Joker isn't exactly a typical patient.

"I don't think that the guards would be too happy if they found out that you've already been out of your cell."

"If you_ were_ going to tell them, you already would have," he retorts knowingly.

"I'm going to let it slide this time because it's your first offense. Next time I won't be so lenient," I warn. He sits up, those intense green eyes studying me for a long moment, like a predator watching its prey.

"You look _tired_, Harley. I hope that's not on my, uh, account."

"It's Dr. Quinzel," I tell him firmly.

"I bet your friends call you Harley."

"We are not friends," I attempt to tell him lightly. "I'm a psychiatrist and you're a patient. I'm here to help you in a completely professional way."

"That's cold, doc, even to a guy a like me." He tongue darts at the corners of his mouth and he smacks his lips, raising an eyebrow. "Ya know, you never answered my last question."

"Yes, I did."

He lets out a sharp bark of laughter. "Avoiding and answering aren't the same things, Harley. No, no, avoiding is what _they_ do. The doctors here think that avoiding questions will keep them distant. They think that keeping it, uh, _professional_ will keep me from seeing all of their dirty laundry, but it won'_t," _he tells me, popping the last t.

"Maybe they'd rather not disclose their personal lives to a stranger," I suggest.

"_Stranger_?" He lets out a high pitched laugh. "We're hardly strangers. They know everything about me, from my height to all of the, uh, "_bad"_ things that I've done. It's only fair that I know a thing or two about them."

"I don't think that the doctors see it that way," I retort, careful to keep my personal opinion out of it.

"Mm, but _you_ don't see things like they do," he growls. "Then, tell me, Harley-

"That's not what is said," I quickly interject.

"-what's the _worst_ thing you've ever done," he finishes, ignoring my comment. "I promise I won't judge," he vows with a cackle of laughter.

"That's enough," I tell him sternly, refusing to answer his question. "Don't let me catch you or have reason to believe that you were out of your cell again," I warn. "Good luck on your session with Dr. Arkham."

"Dr. Arkham?" he repeats with a frown.

"He's going to be your primary psychiatrist for the time being," I inform him. "Don't worry, he's an excellent doctor. You'll be in good hands."

"Why aren't you going to be my, uh, doctor?"

"I'm only a resident here. There are doctors much more qualified than I am to treat you," I reply honestly, turning on my heel to leave.

"We'll see about that," he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.

* * *

At ten o'clock, I find myself nestled in a leather rolling chair around the large meeting room table of room 228. In front of me, like all of the other doctors here, is an opened notebook ready for note taking. In one hand, I've got a pen at the ready and in the other I'm holding a cup of coffee. This my fourth cup so far today and I'm guessing that there will be plenty more.

The large screen, typically used to display power points and such for staff meetings, comes alive once Dr. Jeremiah Arkham turns the camera on. The screen is filled with the image of the Joker, who's eyes are boring into the camera with that same startling intensity that I'd seen earlier. I didn't have much time, or courage for that matter, to get a good look at him in his cell this morning, but now I could study him freely.

His purple suit has been replaced with one of Arkham's awfully colored orange jumpsuits. His greasepaint has been completely removed, leaving his scars up for closer inspection. I'm faintly surprised to see that the skin around the scars isn't red, or even pinkish in color. The skin color has mostly returned to normal, aside from the jagged scar lines themselves, which are a darker, reddened version of his skin tone. It's odd looking at him without the greasepaint, it makes him seem more... exposed. Despite that, he still manages to emit an air of danger and mischief around himself, needing no makeup or a purple suit to intimidate.

"The date is Wednesday, October 16th at ten am. Good morning, my name is Dr. Jeremiah Arkham," the director of the asylum greets from behind the camera. "How are you doing today Mr.…?"

"My name's not really a, uh, _mystery_, doc." I raise an eyebrow at the reply, pen poised over my paper. Did this mean that I was the only person allowed to call him Mr. J?

"Should I call you Mr. Joker then?" Dr. Arkham asks.

"That's my father's name," the Joker replies with a giddy laugh. Dr. Arkham clears his throat awkwardly, already starting to lose control of the conversation.

"Let's talk about your father," Dr. Arkham suggests, swiftly directing the conversation. The Joker drums his fingers along the table, unimpressed. "What did he do for a living?"

"My father was a, uh, _cruel_ man," he replies, the corners of his lips quirking up into a smile. "He was insane really, especially after what happened. It left me wondering if I would turn out to be just like _him_."

"What happened?" Dr. Arkham presses, barely able to conceal the excitement in his voice. He thought that he was making a breakthrough. I, on the other hand, was getting a bad feeling about this.

"Oh, lots of things, not that I was around to see them. No, no, I just heard about all of the horrible little things that he had done, like killing his mother. He put her down like a _dog_," he growls. "Not that anyone knew of course. He was a, uh, respected man. He would never hurt the sick, no, he was there to _help_ them."

"Your father was a doctor?"

The Joker leans back in his chair and continues on, ignoring Dr. Arkham's question. "Not everyone can be helped, ya know," he tells him pointedly, wagging an index finger knowingly at him. "No, no, some people are just _unfixable_. My father tried to help a patient like that once and that patient... well, he didn't like that. Not one bit. So you know what the patient does?"

"What does he do?" Dr. Arkham engages, intrigued.

"He sneaks out of the hospital one day and pays a little visit to my father's house. My father was still at work you see, leaving his wife all alone in that big house of his. So, the patient sneaks in and decides to, uh, play house with my father's dashing young wife, then he _slaughters_ her. He cuts and slashes her to his heart's content, then carves his name into her stomach and wraps her up in a nice little bloodstained package for my father to find. He even puts a bow on top."

My stomach drops. I already know this story and the Joker isn't the main character of it.

"My father, he didn't like his present. No, it turned him into the very thing he hated most. So, when they finally caught the guy and brought him in, my father tortured him and not just physically either. He twisted the patient's mind like a pretzel," the Joker tells him, smacking his lips together. "When they took me to visit him, sometimes he showed me these, uh, these horrible things and for _fun_ he liked to throw me down the stairs. I screamed and I pleaded, but he just wouldn't _listen_. Then one day the world realized just what a, uh, monster he truly was and it didn't end well for him. No, no, they put him down the same way he put down his mother, just like a _dog_."

"You bastard," Dr. Arkham spits, finally realizing that the story is about his uncle, Amadeus Arkham.

The Joker grins. "Does it ever worry you, Dr. Arkham, that one day you're gonna treat the wrong kind of, uh, _crazy_? The kind of crazy that might just slash your pretty little wife's throat. What was your wife's name again? April? No, no, that's not it," he mutters. "Amy?"

Dr. Arkham lunges across the table, grabbing at the Joker's neck. The Joker lets out a continuous series of high pitched cackles in response, clearly enjoying the reaction he was getting out of Dr. Arkham. Guards burst into the room moments later, tearing Dr. Arkham off of him, knocking the camera over in the process. We're left with an image of the floor, the swearing and rustling of Dr. Arkham, and the Joker's gleefully haunting laugh.

"So," Dr. Leland begins, breaking the silence of the room. "What changed?"

"What do you mean?" Dr. Hugo Strange replies.

"He cooperated yesterday, but not today," she clarifies. "So what changed?"

"It's probably some sort of mind game," Dr. Strange suggests. "He's probably trying to throw us off."

"To what purpose?" I question.

"Sheer enjoyment probably. If not that, then maybe he's got something up his sleeve that he doesn't want us to know about."

"He's been here a day," Dr. Leland stresses. "What could he possibly have up his sleeve?"

"Maybe he wanted to get caught," Dr. Strange offers. "Maybe that was his plan all along."

"I don't think so," I interject. "He took a pretty good beating from Batman trying to get away. I don't think that it was his plan to get caught, but maybe he's made a new plan. Maybe he has, I don't know, altered his plans to fit his current predicament."

"You think that he could've rethought all of the tricks up his sleeve in one night?" Dr. Strange questions skeptically.

"Maybe, he seems like a pretty fast adapter."

"Whatever he's doing, I want all of you to keep your eyes open," Dr. Leland instructs. "Don't take any chances with this one. If you want to follow the case and you're cleared to do so by Dr. Arkham, which I advise those of you who are to do so for learning's sake, I'm sure he'll have an updated file for you by tomorrow morning."

The room clears out quickly, but I remain seated. "What is it, Harleen?" Dr. Leland asks after everyone has left.

"I know that I'm just a resident, but do you think that since I initially diagnosed the Joker that I might be able to follow the case?" I inquire hopefully.

"To be blunt with you, no, I don't think you'll be authorized to do so. In all honesty, you don't have much experience and this case is pretty advanced," she tells me, patting my shoulder sympathetically. "I know it's frustrating, but the other doctors and I were in your place once too. Keep up the good work, Harleen, you'll catch your big break one day."


	3. Paperclip Problems

_Had enough?_  
_Let's begin_  
**Breaking Benjamin, ****_What Lies Beneath_**

In the month that passed, from what I gathered, the Arkham staff had made no success in treating the Joker. So far, he had snapped a nurse's neck, attempted to strangle one of the guards, and had successfully picked each psychiatrist off of his case one by one. Dr. Arkham wasn't the only doctor who had a violent outburst with him in the month that he'd been here either. Apparently, the Joker had made Dr. Strange so angry in regards to a remark about his wife during their second session that he had attempted to use shock therapy on him. They managed to stop Dr. Strange on the way to the basement, where the outdated and questionable methods of "healing" were kept. Needless to say, Dr. Strange was booted off of the case.

It was unnerving just how easily the Joker managed to get under the skins of three of Arkham's best doctors. We're talking about trained and experienced doctors here. They were all trained to be calm and collected in the presence of unhinged, ruthless, murderous madmen. It was a requirement for them to be indifferent to the words of the patient. They had years of hands on experience to build up their walls of indifference and collectiveness in front of patients, but the Joker had torn those walls down as if they were made of fragile glass.

Dr. Arkham and Dr. Strange, two of the three doctors that had interviewed him so far, had already tried to kill, or severely harm, him. It was incredibly surprising just how quickly the Joker had managed to get that kind of a rise out of them. They're two of the best doctors that I know, but the Joker had managed to break them with unbelievable ease. I think it was mainly the fear that got to them. I think they knew that the Joker's uncanny threats and subtle hints were something that he could easily follow through on without a second thought. He terrified them, as much as they refused to admit it.

Dr. Leland, the third doctor to try and treat him, hadn't quite broken like the other doctors, if she had arguably been broken at all. She, unlike the other doctors, had kept her composure and followed the typical rules and procedures with the utmost precision during their therapy sessions. She had kept her composure in the room with the Joker and hadn't snapped at him or attempted in anyway to harm him. She had even lasted three full sessions with him, despite him preying on the fact that her daughter Penny had died of cancer. Halfway into her fourth session with the Joker, she calmly ended the session, walked out, and told Dr. Arkham that she was done treating him.

As of right now, the fourth psychiatrist is interviewing him. That psychiatrist being Dr. Adrian Chen. I don't know much about him, only that he examined Killer Croc once or twice. For the most part, he kept to himself around the office, which is one of the main reasons why, even if I was allowed to, I wouldn't watch his session with the Joker. I didn't want to hear the terrible things that the Joker would use against him.

I glance at the clock on my office wall briefly. It's only ten minutes into the session, but I wonder if he's been broken yet. _Stop thinking so negatively, Harls_, I chide. _Maybe he'll be the one to break the case, you never know_.

I hastily push those thoughts, negative and positive, out of my mind and try to focus on the file in front of me. The file belongs to Calendar Man, otherwise known as Julian Day, otherwise known as the file that they gave me when I first arrived here as an intern, otherwise known as a case still fitting of my "undeveloped" skills.

Don't get me wrong, Calendar Man is in need of psychiatric help and I'm happy to try and give it to him, but I'd like to move up the chain of importance one of these days. Calendar Man is just as dangerous as half of the other criminals in Gotham, with an obsession for dates just as bad as Harvey Dent's compulsion to flip his coin, but let's face it, he's not exactly the most high class criminal in Gotham. I'd like to think that I've worked hard enough in my two years of being here to move up from minor patients and lower class criminals.

A knock on my office door startles me out of my thoughts. "Come in," I call, closing Calendar Man's file and leaning back in my chair. The door opens slightly and Dr. Leland sticks her head in the room. I can already tell by her expression that Dr. Chen's session with the Joker didn't go so well.

"Dr. Chen's dead," she tells me solemnly.

The statement takes me by surprise. "What? How?"

"The Joker somehow acquired a paperclip. At one point during the session Dr. Chen leaned forward and the Joker lunged. He managed to slit Dr. Chen's throat with the edge of it. He had already lost too much blood by the time the medic's got to him."

"That's… that's…"

"It's terrible," she finishes. "It was barbaric and unnecessary."

"How are they going to punish the Joker for it?"

"How can they?" she scoffs. "It's not like locking him up in solitary will do any good. All they've done is taken away his cafeteria privileges, as if it's a punishment to have someone hand bring you your food. He didn't have any privileges or perks to begin with so we don't exactly have much to take away."

"I suppose not."

"Anyways, I thought I'd let you know the story of how Dr. Chen died before it starts getting twisted and altered. You know how they like to dramatize and distort things around here," she says with a sigh. "Oh, and before I forget, Dr. Arkham wants to see you in his office right away."

"Why?" I question, a sense of nervousness growing in my stomach. It was similar to the feeling you get when a teacher tells you that the principle wants to see you, whether it be for a good or bad reason.

"I don't know, he just told me to come get you. I wouldn't keep him waiting too long, though. He's pretty frustrated already."

"I'll get right on that," I assure her. "Thanks, Joan."

"No problem." She shuts the door, leaving me alone with my worrisome thoughts. Had I done something wrong? I rack my mind trying to think of an explanation as to why Dr. Arkham wanted to see me. Maybe I had filled something out wrong on one of my reports.

Oh well, we'd see soon enough. I square my shoulders and exit my office, surrendering to the fate that I couldn't control. I make my way up to the fifth floor too quickly for my liking and knock on Dr. Arkham's door lightly, part of me hoping that he won't answer it.

"Come in," he calls and I swear under my breath. I push the door open and step inside the familiar office, shutting the door behind me.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Have a seat, Harleen." _That sounds promising__._ I take my seat quietly in front of the desk he sits behind, searching his face for signs as to what I'd done. He doesn't appear to be angry, tired and frustrated maybe, but not overtly angry. That was a good sign.

"Have I done something wrong?" I question, unable to take the suspense any longer. He raises an eyebrow and looks at me with a confused expression.

"Have you?" he retorts. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"No, it's just that you called me up here without a reason," I explain.

"Oh, no, I didn't call you up here for anything like that," he quickly dismisses. "You haven't done anything wrong, I just thought that this matter should be discussed privately, that's all."

I breathe a quiet sigh of relief, although I'm not sure that I had anything to be worried about in the first place. "What is it that you wanted to see me about?"

"As you're probably aware, we haven't made much progress with the Joker," he begins, lacing his fingers together atop the desk. "Seeing as Dr. Strange and I can no longer be on the case and Dr. Leland won't rejoin it for her own sake, I'm faced with a problem. That problem being that if I keep sending doctors in there, then they might end up botching the session with violence or cracking under the Joker's jabs to their sanity or even worse, end up like Dr. Chen."

"Right," I agree slowly, wondering what point he's getting at. "To be blunt, Dr. Arkham, what does this have to do with me?"

"I don't want to waste any more doctors," he tells me. "I don't know how useful it will be to keep sending in new psychiatrists. So far, you're the only one he's talked to, _really_ talked to. I want to send you in."

"You want to send me in with the Joker?" I repeat incredulously. "He might not even talk to me again."

"That's a risk I'm going to have to take. I hate to put you in the position that our most experienced doctors have broken under, but this is the best chance we've got. If we don't get anything out of him soon, I'm afraid they'll take him back to Blackgate. If you're right about him really needing some mental help, then we're going to have to prove it. You said you wanted to follow the case, right?"

"Follow it, not be a part of it."

"Look, I can't force you take the job-"

"I didn't say that I didn't want it," I quickly clarify. This was a huge opportunity for my career, I'd be out of my mind to dismiss it right away.

"Do you want some time to think about it?"

"No, I'll do it." I'd be a fool not to. "But I want some time to review the case first."

"I can't give you much time, Harleen, we're on a tight enough schedule as it is. There's someone coming from the district attorney's office in a month to review the case."

"Why's the DA getting involved so early?" I ask curiously. "Usually they give us three or four months to get patient cases together."

"We're dealing with the Joker here, Gotham's new superstar villain. He's done more damage to this city in a couple of weeks than half the criminals in here have done in months. The DA's getting antsy about him. They think he needs to be locked in a room with four inch thick steel walls, not some "escapable" institution."

"If they didn't want him to be moved here, then why did they even let me psychoanalyze him?"

"It's not just them," he tells me with a sigh. "The Joker's making_ everyone_ nervous, including most of this city's law enforcement divisions, but they don't want him to know that. If they had demanded that he stay in the maximum security wing with six armed guards and not a single possibility of going to Arkham, then he would've caught on that something was up. They knew he would've played on their fear."

"What if he's already caught on?" I question with a hunch.

"It's out of our hands now," he replies. "We need to get something out of him soon, otherwise we'll never be able to study him again. This could be a big break for Arkham, Harleen. It could be a big break for psychological studies in general. It won't do anyone any good to have him rotting away in a cell."

"You don't want to help him," I realize, mentally smacking myself. I should've known. "You just want to study him."

Dr. Arkham shrugs and leans back in his chair. "I don't think this one can be helped," he says simply.

"It's worth a try," I retort. "Our job is to help people, not use them to our own advantage."

"Oh _please_," he shoots back. "As if you're taking this case to help him."

"I'd like to try."

"Then try, by all means, try. To help him, you're going to have to get something out of him first. So, while you're trying to help him, I'll be trying to help the psychology field with some of the information you've learned. We're working towards the same thing, Harleen. I'm not the bad guy here."

"You're right," I tell him, saying it to end the argument, not because I believed it.

"Here," he states, sliding a file towards me. "That's all we've got on the Joker so far. Take the rest of the day off and go study it." He digs around in his desk for a moment, then pulls out four discs and hands them to me. "Those are the interview tapes, one for each doctor. Study those too. I'll set up your meeting with the Joker for tomorrow at ten."

"Tomorrow?" I repeat. "That doesn't give me much time to-"

"Maybe it's better for you to be a little unprepared," he tells me. "I mean, just look at what happened to the doctors who were extensively prepared."

* * *

It doesn't take me long to reach my apartment on Lexington Avenue, only about twenty minutes or so. On a given day with traffic, it usually took me somewhere around forty minutes to an hour. I didn't mind the long drive, though. As much as I loved my job, I was happy to be away from it when night rolled around. It was relieving at times, being able to distance myself from the job that had basically dictated my life since the second I applied for an internship. I had thought that the job was controlling then, but the days only grew longer once I started my residency.

I enter the main hallway of the apartment complex and make my way into the elevator, pressing the fifth floor button as the doors shut. Living on the fifth floor could be a pain at times, especially on grocery day, but I preferred it to living on the first floor. It wasn't unknown for Arkham patients to sneak into unsuspecting doctor's homes. This way, if anyone tried to pay me a visit, they'd have to go through the main floor of the building first, which risked them being seen. Even if they weren't spotted on the main floor, there was still a good chance that someone would see them on their way up to the fifth floor before they got to me.

I reach the fifth floor and enter the last apartment on the left. I kick my shoes off by the door, set my things down on the side table, and then nestle onto my couch with the Joker's file. It's already grown considerably since I first turned it in and as I flip through it, I spot several handwritten theories from various other doctors. I flip back to the front page, going over the basics first. The first thing I notice is that the initial information I submitted has been unsurprisingly altered.

**Name: Unknown  
Primary Alias: The Joker  
Height: 6'1  
Weight: 160  
Age: 26-34**

I sigh briefly before continuing. They had expanded my four year age gap to eight. I could admit that the Joker being twenty seven might be possible, but twenty six was pushing it a little too far. Thirty three and thirty four, on the other hand, might also be possible, but I highly doubted it.

I flip through the rest of the basics briefly, noticing that my initial notes about his arrival are still intact. Behind my analysis notes, several of the prison guards and police officers had reported things about his behavior on the night of the arrest, but aside from seeming to enjoy it, he hadn't given off any red flags. He hadn't even attempted to escape from or fight the arresting officers.

I glance at the various illnesses he has been diagnosed with or showed signs of so far. By the extensive list of things raging from schizophrenia to various delusion disorders, the other doctors appeared to have had the same hard time that I had trying to find a fitting diagnosis. Some of the possible illnesses written down I gave a nod to, others made me raise an eyebrow. Some were good, thought out choices. Others seemed a little desperate.

I set the file down and wander over to my purse, grabbing the discs out of it. Which one should I watch first? Definitely not Chen's, that was one nightmare I could live without. I'd already seen Dr. Arkham's, but the other two I'd only heard about. So, which was it? Watching the Joker taunt someone with information about their dead child or watching him taunt a man so profusely about his wife that he attempts to kill him?

Ultimately, I choose neither and set the discs back down. I didn't need to see what the Joker could do to break people, I didn't _want_ to see that. I was already feeling anxious about our next encounter, I didn't need another reason to be on edge about tomorrow. What I'd seen and heard was bad enough as it is.

I retake my seat on the couch, but leave the Joker's file on the coffee table. I needed to get some sort of plan together, some sort of outline. It was more for my benefit than his. I needed something to keep the conversation on track and in the direction I wanted it to go. I didn't want our first session to derail and end up in my personal life.

He'd be able to see any plan of mine coming from a mile away. He'd chide me for making any kind of plan, especially one that involved him. It wouldn't work, I knew that deep down. There was no dictating the conversation with him. But maybe, just maybe, I could sway the conversation towards the direction that I wanted it to go.

Or maybe not. Maybe the conversation would go to hell right off the bat. Maybe he'd slit my throat with a paperclip.

I sigh, picking his file back up. This was going to be a long night.

* * *

I lie in bed wide awake. The clock beside me reads 2:47 am, or at least it did when I last looked at it. The covers of my bed have been upturned and twisted and jumbled into a heaping mess at the foot of my bed, mainly from being either frustrated or anxiously kicked around. There's a cold draft in the apartment from the winter air outside that crawls over my uncovered skin, but I'm too feverish with nervousness to be bothered by it.

Logically, I know that I shouldn't be as nervous as I am. I've talked to the man twice, _twice_. I wasn't nearly as worried then as I am now. Maybe it's because I know more about him now, maybe it's because I know what he can do to doctors ten times more experienced than me. I can't pinpoint where these nerves are coming from exactly, but I have a feeling they're from a multitude of things.

I keep asking myself what he can really do, besides kill me. I don't have some treacherous past or some tragic sob story. My parents hadn't died tragically in a car crash when I was three, nor were either of them unjustly murdered. My father wasn't abusive and my mother wasn't an alcoholic. My parent's loved me and I had a relatively normal childhood. I couldn't think of much that he could actually use against me.

I don't really have any big secrets either, aside from being best friends with two of Gotham's criminals, but I don't see how the Joker could possibly know that. I'm not a widow or the mother of a dead child. I didn't grow up wondering if I'd end up like some crazy relative. I don't have a husband that he can threaten, or a boyfriend who cheats or beats on me. I can't think of any one thing that he can use against me to the point where I'll break.

There's little things that he could prey on, like the fact that I work too much, but that's hardly mind breaking material. He won't use Pam against me, I know that for sure. There's no possible way for him, or anyone else for that matter, to know that we're friends. That leaves me with nothing more than being a (questionable) workaholic with an almost nonexistent personal life.

If that's all that he could possibly have against me, then why are my nerves such a mess?

I roll over for what seems like the ten thousandth time tonight and stare blankly at the wall. I need sleep, I know that. It's not ideal for me to walk in there tomorrow with purple shadows beneath bloodshot eyes. It wouldn't be good for me mentally either. I needed to be alert and focused, both of which stemmed from the benefit of sleep.

Unfortunately, sleep seemed like an unrealistic daydream at this point.

The Joker would pry at my lack of sleep, but then again, he'd pry at everything else too. Even if I didn't have a horrible, traumatic life, he was probably going to pick and pull at every aspect of the life that I do have. He'd dissect me, just like he did the other doctors, except he's already had time to analyze me. A little over a month to be exact. That thought wasn't exactly comforting.

I didn't give him much to pick and pull at during our first encounter, nor did I give him much to go off of from my answers to his personal questions, but he had seemed content at the time. I doubted that he'd stay content with vague, useless answers for long, though. Or maybe they weren't useless, maybe he had already learned what he wanted to know about me from them.

The knot of nervousness in my stomach tightens as I roll onto the other side of the bed. Personal questions from the Joker were inevitable, but I was confident in my abilities to avoid and vaguely answer them. However, I wasn't as confident in how long my abilities would last. The Joker might grow tired of me dodging questions and who knows what he might do then. I didn't have anything to hide, but I didn't exactly want the details of my personal life out in the open either.

I glance over at the clock. 3:23 am. In five hours, I'd be at work. In only six and a half, I'd be in a room with the Joker. The thought of that alone warded off any further possibility of a restful night.

* * *

**A/N-** Thank you so much to those of you who have read, reviewed, favorited, and followed so far. I really appreciate it. Feel free to let me know what you think of the story so far, reviews are always welcome.


	4. Session I

_Well they encourage your complete cooperation_  
_Send you roses when they think you need to smile_  
**My Chemical Romance, _Blood_**

"Dr. Quinzel!" a voice urgently calls as I make my way towards my office. I turn around to see Dr. Sarah Cassidy hurriedly making her way towards me. "Dr. Arkham's been trying to reach for you for the past half hour."

"I was in traffic and my phone's off. Why has he been calling me?" I question nervously. Had something changed? Was he taking me off of the Joker's case already?

"Someone from the district attorney's office is coming over today." She glances at her watch briefly. "Actually, make that ten minutes. I'd get up to Dr. Arkham's office if I were you."

"Thanks," I mutter, quickly making my way back over towards the elevator. I step inside the metal compartment and jab at the fifth floor button repeatedly in my haste, but the doors seem to purposely delay shutting. When they do shut and the elevator begins to move, it feels sluggish. The doors finally open and I all but run towards Dr. Arkham's office. I'm saved the time of knocking on the door because the man himself is standing right beside it with crossed arms.

I step inside his office, with him at my heels, to find an unfamiliar man sitting in front of his desk. "Dr. Quinzel, this is Dr. Simon Brody, the DA sent him over. He's a psychiatrist from Metropolis. Dr. Brody, this is Dr. Harleen Quinzel."

"Nice to meet you," Dr. Brody tells me, coming over to shake my hand. I shake his hand warily, my eyes subtly looking him over. Dr. Brody appears to be in his mid-forties and is of regular stature, although he does lean more towards the scrawny side. His beady brown eyes almost appear to be black and right off the bat, I don't have a good feeling about him.

"Nice to meet you too, Dr. Brody," I reply politely. "I was under the impression that the DA was sending someone down in about a month."

"They were," he quickly informs me. "The abrupt change and lack of notice is on my part, I'm sorry to say. I came down here for a psychology conference and since I'm usually the one to visit and help assess patients, I thought I'd drop in. The DA agreed that this is a more convenient and cheaper alternative to sending me out here again in a month. I hope that me being here isn't an inconvenience for you or the other staff members."

"No, not at all," Dr. Arkham tells him pleasantly. "Dr. Brody's going to be joining you on your session with the Joker today," Dr. Arkham adds, turning towards me.

"Don't worry, I'm not here to step on any toes," Dr. Brody assures me. "The court would like a second opinion on the patient's mental status to weed out any discrepancies or favoritism, that's all. Today's session is all yours. I'll just be there to observe and make remarks or ask questions when I need to. Take control of the session anyway you see fit. I'll be having my own session with the patient this Friday."

I nod, unable to muster up a reply. I'm a bit insulted at the idea of having a DA employed psychologist overseeing and making note of my work, but more than that, I'm worried. How will the Joker react to having a second doctor in the room? I doubt he'll take it well.

"Let's all have a seat," Dr. Arkham suggests, feeling the taut tension in the room. I take a seat next to Dr. Arkham on the couch against the wall opposite his desk and Dr. Brody takes a seat in the armchair diagonal to us.

"So, Harleen," Dr. Brody begins, turning towards me, "is it alright if I call you that?"

"Sure," I reply, although I don't really want to be on a first name basis with Dr. Brody.

"I understand that this is going to your first session with Patient 4479? I hope you don't mind if I call him that, it's just that I feel calling him the "Joker" plays into his idea of having power," he explains. I'm not sure what I'm more agitated at, the fact that he's probably right as to what we should really be calling the Joker or the fact that he's pointedly insulting Dr. Arkham's intellect. Dr. Arkham wasn't exactly my favorite person in the building, but he was still my boss, and I didn't appreciate having my boss be called out by one of the DA's pawns.

"Yes, this will be my first therapy session with Patient 4479," I confirm, emphasizing the patient number a little too obviously. "I've spoken with him before, though."

"Really?" There's a hint of suspicion in his tone. "So then you know him on a personal level?"

"No, I don't. I've never met the man outside of a high security building. I'm the doctor who analyzed him at Blackgate," I clarify.

"Oh, so you're the one who deemed him in need of mental help," he deduces. "Must've been a tough decision."

"No, not really," I reply to whatever he's implying. "I just went over his answers and behavior like I would any other patient." Dr. Arkham clears his throat awkwardly, hearing the undertone of irritation in my voice. I attempt to push my irritation aside, but it's proving to be a bit of a challenge.

"I'm sure you did, I didn't mean anything by what I said," he reassures me. "It's just that it's got to be tough knowing that your career could be ruined if it turns out he's not actually insane. You seem awfully young, I'd hate for you to have something so negative playing against you at your age."

"I don't think he's faking," I reply steely.

"I'm sure we'll find out soon enough. Speaking of your age, I hope you don't mind me asking, but how old are you?"

"I'm twenty eight."

"Twenty eight," he repeats with a short nod of his head. "Are you still doing your internship?"

"No, I'm a little over a year into my residency."

"So young," he clucks. "Tell me, Dr. Arkham, why did you pick such an inexperienced doctor for this case?" I can feel myself glaring at him and force myself to push my anger aside, which is becoming increasingly harder and harder to do, considering he keeps making jabs at me.

"Dr. Quinzel's a very promising young doctor," Dr. Arkham informs him. "I thought that maybe a fresh pair of eyes could take a look at the situation and give us some new insight."

"That's an interesting choice of perspective," Dr. Brody muses. "The last thing I want to be is rude, but are you sure that she's up to the task?"

As Dr. Arkham goes to answer, I mentally sigh. This day is already turning out to be much worse than I had expected.

* * *

I stand in front of the Joker's interview room, my nerves high on end. I have an hour in there with him to prove that he isn't in his right mind. It was worrisome enough having to deal with him alone, one on one, with that intense green stare of his and it was stressful knowing that no one else has been successful and knowing that the best, highly trained doctors have been broken in that very room. Now, I have to deal with Dr. Brody's scrutiny on top of all of that.

I square my shoulders and open the door. The Joker's eyes lazily roll upwards to meet mine, but when he sees who I am, he sits up in his chair and his look deepens. There's a spark of intrigue and (I think) glee in his probing gaze.

"_Harrrrley_," he greets, as if I were an old friend. "I _knew_ I'd be seeing you again," he tells me knowingly, shaking his index finger at me.

"It's Dr. Quinzel," I remind him firmly, taking my seat in front of him. I turn towards the camera beside me and pop the back of it open, revealing the square grey battery.

"You're late," a familiar voice in the back of the room chides. I turn my head to see Dr. Brody sitting in a steel chair against the back wall of the room, pen and paper in hand. "I can see that punctuality isn't one of your strong suits."

"I was getting a new battery for the camera," I tell him with a forced smile, holding up the grey square. "This one's battery is low." He makes no remark as I switch out the batteries. My hands tremble lightly as I do so, mainly out of nervousness. The Joker's eyes don't miss a single shake or tremor.

I stow away the battery that needs to be charged in my coat pocket and turn on the camera. "This is Dr. Harleen Quinzel overseeing Patient 4479. Dr. Simon Brody is also present. The date is Thursday, November 14th and the time is 10:05 am. Are you ready to begin the session?" I ask the Joker directly.

He licks his lips and drums his finger along the table. "Ready when you are, doc."

"Alright, I thought we'd start with," Dr. Brody begins from across the room. The Joker raises an eyebrow at the disbelief that's probably taken hold of my once professional expression. I clear my throat loudly, turning to look pointedly at Dr. Brody. "Oh, right, it's your session. My apologies. I'm just so used to teaching around young novices."

_Let it go, Harley_, I tell myself, part of my nervousness being overcome by anger. _Don't lose your composure_. I take a deep breath and turn back towards the Joker, focusing all of my energy on him. The Joker, however, has fixated his attention on Dr. Brody. He leans back in his chair and smacks his lips, turning to look at me and then Dr. Brody again. He looks somewhat agitated.

"We don't need a, uh, _chaperone_," he tells Dr. Brody.

"I'm not a chaperone. I'm a psychiatrist from Metropolis and I'm here to determine whether or not Dr. Quinzel made the right choice in bringing you here," he explains with a superior smile. "I'll be having these kinds of therapy sessions with you as well. The first one's tomorrow, on Friday. I'm looking forward to it."

"And will _Harleen_-"

"Dr. Quinzel," I automatically correct.

"Dr. Quinzel," he rephrases, "be at these, uh, sessions?"

"No, I won't," I answer truthfully.

"Mm." He sits back in his chair and narrows his eyes at Dr. Brody. "Then why are you in _our_ session?" He makes the word "our" sound much too personal for my liking. I'm almost certain that Dr. Brody caught onto the personal undertone as well. I can practically imagine him putting a check mark next to favoritism under my name.

"I already told you why," Dr. Brody replies calmly.

"Then you need to, uh, _skedaddle_," the Joker tells him, making a shooing motion with his hands.

"Excuse me?"

"Let's start the session," I quickly suggest, trying my best to take control of the conversation. "I see that the doctors changed your medication to Seroquel. How's that been treating you?"

His tongue probes at the inside of his cheeks for a moment, then he leans towards me. "They sent him here because of that little, uh, _mishap_ I had with the last doctor, didn't they?" he questions, holding his handcuffed hands up to the side as if to stop Dr. Brody from hearing him.

"I'm right here," Dr. Brody calls, which the Joker blatantly ignores. This session was _not_ getting off to a good start. I can feel my chances of ever treating the Joker again slip farther and farther away with each passing minute.

"Is this really necessary?" the Joker asks me.

"Is what really necessary?"

"The chaperone in the corner. It was just one little doctor, I did for the sake of progress really. If you ask _me,_ I did the rest of these doctors a favor."

"Do you really expect the staff to thank you for killing Dr. Chen?" I question, half curious, half incredulous.

The Joker shrugs. "Well, a card would be _nice_…"

"Let's move on," I suggest, taking a moment to gather myself.

"You know, Harley-"

"Dr. Quinzel."

"Dr. Quinzel," he rephrases again, "this would go a lot smoother if the, uh, chaperone were to leave."

"I'm not leaving, unless there's a specific reason as to why you'd like to talk to Dr. Quinzel alone," Dr. Brody tells him.

The Joker raises an eyebrow, catching onto the hidden meaning in his question. "Look," I tell the Joker flatly before he can respond to Dr. Brody. "We're both just trying to help you here. It may be for different reasons, but we've both got the same goal in mind. Can you please at least_ try_ to cooperate with Dr. Brody in the room?"

The Joker laughs, the sound sharp and maniacal. "That's a good one, doc," he tells me, as if trying to cooperate with Dr. Brody in the room is completely absurd. He taps his finger against his chin, then turns to me. "You ever hear the joke about the pawn trying to become a knight?"

"No, but I don't think jokes are therapy appropriate-"

"There's this pawn who's morals and plans and _priorities_ are all over the place," the Joker begins, cutting off my protest. "He had a pretty wife once, and a daughter too, but he, uh, well he worked too much and the family had enough of cold dinners and missed school plays, so they decided to split. What was left of the pawn's perfect little family left their perfect little city for a grittier one, a dangerous one, 'cause that's where the wife got a job. See, she's gotta support herself now and their old city... well let's just say it's not really fit for the, uh, poor. The pawn's pretty upset about the whole ordeal, but he's real worried you see, 'cause there are some real _freaks_ in this new city his wife's in."

"Mr. J," I warn, having a hunch that the story he's telling isn't a joke at all. The storyline didn't fit me, which left only one other victim in the room

"One day, the pawn sees an, uh, _opportunity_ of sorts to put down one of the big bad wolves that could be a threat to his broken little family. It's a chance to be the hero his wife always wanted him to be. A chance to make his family feel safer. A chance to pick up and glue together all of the tiny little pieces of his shattered life," the Joker continues, as if I hadn't spoken at all. "He thinks that if he takes this, uh, opportunity, he'll win his family back and be their knight in shining armor. He won't be of course, 'cause his wife's sleeping with the pizza boy and his daughter, well she _hates_ him, but that's beside the point."

"That's not a very funny joke," Dr. Brody observes and I can hear his calm tone beginning to falter. "I don't appreciate it when patients bring a doctor's personal life into the conversation. I don't know where you got this information of yours from, but I won't stand for it. I'm going to have to request that there be some form of punishment given, Dr. Quinzel, because this kind of behavior is unacceptable."

"Don't be so serious, doc," the Joker drawls, a grin stretched widely across his face. "I'm just getting to the, uh, punch line."

"I don't think that's such a good idea," I tell the Joker warily. He doesn't acknowledge that I said anything at all, keeping his eyes firmly rooted on Dr. Brody.

"Ya see, all of this work the pawn's doing to become a knight is really, uh, useless. All the work that he did just drew the big bad wolf closer. He thought that he outsmarted the wolf, when really he just gave the wolf an, uh, opportunity of his own. Ya want to know what the real kicker is?"

"No, I don't think that's-"

"The pawn's family ends up getting _slaughtered_. As for the wolf... well, let's just say he's not going hungry." Dr. Brody stands up and the Joker laughs loudly. The sound of his laughter fills the room as I nervously glance at Dr. Brody, who seems to have turned three shades redder and is gripping his clipboard so hard that his knuckles are turning white. The Joker, running out of oxygen to fuel his hyena-like cackles, gets out several more laughs, bangs his fists on the table, and takes in a deep rasp of air.

"I think I've had enough for today," Dr. Brody announces, hastily striding over towards the door. "Dr. Quinzel, wrap this session up quickly. I think you've achieved enough for today." With that, he exits the room, leaving me alone with the Joker.

"That kind of behavior will not be tolerated in my therapy sessions," I tell the Joker sternly, trying to regain some, if any, control over the session. "Stringing people along like puppets will not get you anywhere, not in here. We're trying to help you, but if you keep toying with people like this and don't give the doctors anything to work with, then they are going to send you to Blackgate."

"Are you saying that I'm not, uh, _crazy_ enough for this place?"

"What I'm saying is that if you don't help yourself, then the other doctors and I can't help you. The first step in the rehabilitation process is realizing why you're in here."

"Rehabilitation?" he repeats with a raspy laugh. "You think you're going to, uh, fix me?"

"Do you think there's anything that needs to be fixed?" I reply swiftly.

"You're good, doc," he tells me, shaking his index finger towards me. "Always trying to avoid those pesky questions."

"The DA thinks that you're faking insanity," I inform him, ignoring his previous comment. "Are you?"

"No."

"So then you think you're crazy?"

"Crazy people don't think they're crazy, doc, they think they're sane. Sane people are the ones who think they're going crazy. I suppose sanity is kind of like what you said about good and bad, it's all, uh, relative." He pauses for a moment and his eyebrows knit together in thought. "I think that's a quote."

"It's not relative to the DA, they _will_ send you to Blackgate if they think you're faking insanity," I tell him, ignoring his remark about relative sanity being a quote, although I'm faintly sure I've heard it somewhere.

"I like you, doc. You're different from all of the other doctors. As much as you _want_ to be like them, you're not." When I don't respond, he leans forward and adds, "That was a compliment."

"I think that this is enough for one session," I decide, knowing that Dr. Brody will have me pulled out of the session if I don't end it soon. Being complimented by the patient seems like a pretty good indication to end the session anyway. "Have a nice day, Mr. J." I flip the switch on the camera down, shutting it off, and stand up, my mind whizzing with a thousand different thoughts.

"Harley," he begins.

"Dr. Quinzel," I absentmindedly correct.

"I'll see you again soon, _Harley_."

Without bothering to correct the name a second time, I turn on my heel and swiftly leave the room.

* * *

"That was great!" Dr. Arkham boasts, once I'm in his office. Unsurprisingly, Dr. Brody is nowhere to be found. I stare at Dr. Arkham in disbelief for a long moment, wondering how he could possibly think that the session went even remotely well.

"That was terrible," I argue. "The Joker practically ripped the DA's toy to shreds."

"But he didn't rip _you_ to shreds, Harleen. This is a big advance."

"It doesn't matter what advance I made, Dr. Brody's probably already made up his mind by now. He's going to send the Joker to Blackgate, especially since he blatantly threatened his family," I point out sullenly.

"Dr. Brody can't diagnosis him based on one bad therapy session."

"No, but who's to say that there won't be more bad therapy sessions? He might talk to me, the key word here being _might_, but Dr. Brody is a whole different story. You know that the Joker's not going to let up. He's going to keep picking and tearing at Dr. Brody until he snaps, or worse, transfers him to Blackgate out of loathing instead of logic."

"We'll worry about that when the time comes, for now, let's take a step back and look at how much we've accomplished in this session alone," he suggests.

"We didn't accomplish anything!" I exclaim. "He ripped Dr. Brody to shreds, just like all of the other doctors. It wasn't any different."

"Yes it was, Harleen. He talked to _you_. He engaged in conversation with _you_. He was interested in talking to _you_. It might not have been much, but it could be the beginning of progress. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Yes, but-"

"Then stop sulking around, change doesn't happen overnight," he snaps. "I want you to go back in there again. I want your visits with him to be like routine therapy sessions."

"When?"

"Every Thursday at ten in the morning, that way we have a sense of organization and it'll give him a long enough break in between the sessions. I have a feeling that if we do too many he'll get restless. Besides, the DA will like that the visits aren't scattered all over the place."

I nod and Dr. Arkham opens his mouth, then shuts it again, debating something internally. "Can I ask you something?" he finally concludes.

"Sure," I reply, somewhat nervous.

"Why do you think he talks to you? I don't mean to be so blunt here, but do you think it might have something to do with your appearance? You are the youngest doctor in this hospital that's ever engaged in conversation with him."

"No, I don't think that's it," I tell him honestly. "He doesn't strike me as the type to cooperate based on looks." No, he strikes me as the type of person who always has at least some vague idea of a plan or a grand scheme, despite how much he outwardly opposes other people's schemes, but maybe that's because their schemes are organized, planned, and susceptible to failure. Maybe his plans are so chaotic that they can't fail, or maybe his plans don't even have a specified outcome.

All I know is that I have a disconcerting hunch that the Joker is planning something and the only reason he's talking to me is because I somehow fit one of the roles in his grand scheme.

* * *

Naturally, that night I can't sleep, so instead of hopelessly tossing and turning while my mind whizzes with today's events, I make my way over to Pam's. I tried calling her first, but the line said that her number was currently out of service. I decide to drive there anyway, despite the fact that it's a potentially stupid and dangerous decision on my part, but I can't take the restless feeling in my apartment. If I stare at the same four walls any longer, I feel like I might start to lose it.

I bang on the door to the abandoned house three sharp times, then open it and make my way inside. "Pam," I call loudly, announcing my presence. "It's just me, don't try anything!"

"That was _one_ time!" she exclaims, coming out of her indoor garden. "Would you let it go? What are you doing here anyway? Isn't it late?"

"It's only two in the morning," I tell her with a shrug. Pam rolls her eyes at my sarcasm. "I couldn't sleep and tossing and turning was driving me crazy. I tried calling you but it said your number was out of service."

"Yeah, the cops were getting close so I had to trash the cell phone,"she replies casually, acting as if cops chasing her is a normal thing. Then again, I suppose it is relatively normal for her, considering she poisons and kills people who harm or get in the way of her saving the environment. "I'll get another one sometime or another. Want something to eat?"

"What do you have?" I question.

"Nothing right now. Selina's robbing the gas station right outside of the neighborhood, call her if you want something."

"What? Why is she robbing a gas station?"

"She said she was hungry and needed a break from her diet. I think she said she wanted ho-ho's or something," Pam replies nonchalantly. "She better recycle that plastic wrapping, though. Have you any idea how quickly those wrappers can pile up and taint the environment?"

Ignoring Pam's more than usual nature rant, I ask, "Is she, you know...?"

"Dressed up as Catwoman?" she finishes for me. "No, she's just wearing a mask and some gloves. She said it was too much trouble to put on the suit to rob one little gas station."

"Why didn't she just walk in and buy something instead of going to all the trouble?"

"You're the psychiatrist, you tell me," she retorts with a smirk. I roll my eyes and follow her into the den, taking a seat in the ratty armchair. "So, speaking of psychiatry, does work happen to be the reason why you're here at two in the morning?"

"Maybe."

"What's Arkham piled on top of you now?" she questions with a sigh.

"It's that patient I was telling you about, the one I analyzed down at Blackgate about a month ago. Arkham gave me the case, I mean it was kind of as a last resort, but he actually gave me the case. I agreed to take the case and I want to help this patient, but he worries me. He worries everyone, he terrifies them."

"You're smart, Harls. I'm sure you can find some way to help this patient of yours," she reassures me.

"He's broken down three doctors, Red, he even made Arkham himself snap. Two doctors have attacked this patient, one with the outright intention of killing him. We're talking about experienced doctors here. He even managed to get under the skin of one of the DA's psychiatrists. Not to mention he killed a doctor yesterday."

"Who is this patient?" Pam asks, now intrigued.

"It's, uh, well, I'm not really sure that I should-"

"Harley, you're talking to someone who they're trying to put in that hospital of yours. If anyone realizes that you told me something about this case, they're not going to be worried about what you were saying, only who you were talking to. Now fess up."

I pause for a moment, debating. "It's the Joker."

"The Joker?" she repeats. "As in the guy who runs around blowing things up in clown makeup?"

"That's the one."

"You can't possibly think you can fix him. The guy's a real nut job. I'm not perfect, but the Joker's on a whole other spectrum of crazy."

"Thanks for that, Pam," I mutter. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

"It might not be what you wanted to hear, but it's true," she retorts firmly. "He's going to manipulate you, Harley. And if he can't manipulate you, who knows what he might do. I just don't want to see you get hurt."

"I'm not going to let him manipulate me, or at least I'm going to try not to let him. As for safety, that's not a guarantee with any of the patients."

"I'm not telling you this to be mean or discourage you, I'm telling you as a friend," she justifies. "If you think you can fix him, then go for it, but be careful. I don't want to see your face on the news with some gruesome caption beneath it."

"I don't want that to happen either," I murmur, no less anxious about the Thursdays to come. _You can do this_, I assure myself. _Treat him like you would any other patient at Arkham_.

The only problem is that the Joker isn't like any other patient at Arkham.

* * *

**A/N-** Thanks again to those of you have read, reviewed, favorited, and followed so far. As I've said before in the previous chapter, feel free to let me know what you think of the story so far, reviews are always welcome. Also, in case you're wondering, the quote that the Joker mentions is "Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage," by Ray Bradbury.


	5. Session II

_We are two of a kind  
Violent, unsound of mind  
You're the yin to my yang, can't you see?_  
**Miracle of Sound, _Joker's Song_**

"Good morning," I greet after stepping into the interview room on Thursday at promptly ten am. I take my seat in front of the Joker quietly and turn the camera on. Thankfully, Dr. Brody is absent from our second session, which takes off one of the many stressful factors resting on my shoulders. "This is Dr. Harleen Quinzel overseeing Patient 4479. The date is Thursday, November 21st and the time is ten o'clock am. How are you doing today?" I ask the Joker directly. To my dismay, the question sounds more ridiculous out loud than it did in my head.

The Joker doesn't respond, assessing me shamelessly with those intense green eyes of his. He remains reclined in his seat, leaning against the back of the chair. His legs are stretched out as far out as the shackles at the foot of the chair will allow them to go and both of his arms are draped on top of the metal table, his fingers leisurely and slowly drumming against the metal surface.

"I _knew_ you'd come back," he drawls, wagging his index finger at me.

"It's Thursday," I reply casually, offering no further explanation. "Speaking of days, let's talk about how your week has been. Are you liking your daily schedule here at Arkham?"

"Ah, you mean the, uh, routines they try to make me follow?" he questions, smacking his lips together. "Routines involve scheduling and order, ya see, and both of those things revolve around rules. And as you know, rules... well they're not sensible, they just don't work. It's _them_," he stares pointedly into the camera, "who think that their little rules will work." He pulls his arms away from the table and stares up at the ceiling in thought. "Hmm, let's see, Monday's are, uh, what do you call it? It's some useless title for finger painting."

"Patient Self Expression?" I suggest, my mind stuck on what he said about rules not working. I want to ask him how they're not working, but I don't want to interrupt him when he's actually answering my original question either.

"Ah, that's it. Yeah, I like that okay. Although, the staff doesn't really like when I try to really, uh, _express _myself."

"What do you mean by that?" I question.

"Well, I needed some red paint to really express myself, but one of the other patients used it all. Naturally, I suggested another more organic alternative-"

"Let's talk about Tuesdays," I suggest, quickly cutting him off, trying to keep the gore out of this session.

"Tuesdays are _boring_. Wednesdays I get to exercise and Thursdays... they're my favorite." He flashes me a brief smile. " And Fridays," he pauses, shaking his head, "I don't like Fridays."

"Why's that?"

"The little, uh, _chaperone_ from the DA's office pesters me. I don't like him, not one bit." The Joker sits up in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. His eyes study me for a moment, raking back and forth over my face. "Harley, Harley, _Harley_. You really ought to have more _fun_. Conformity and dullness... it just doesn't suit you. Set aside the paperwork and go rob a bank or something."

"It's Dr. Quinzel," I correct for the thousandth time. "Robbing a bank is hardly fun. If anything, it'd be miserable, what with all the worrying about the police and the silent alarms and whatnot."

"Oh I _disagree_. Not knowing if the cops are going to catch ya or not is the best part. All that energy, all that adrenaline, it's a real kick. You ought to try it sometime, you'll see."

"I'll add that to my bucket list," I tell him, trying my best to keep the sarcasm from creeping into my tone. He raises an eyebrow. "Have you always liked clowns?" I ask, trying to change the subject.

The Joker licks his lips and smacks them again, lacing his fingers together on top of the table. "Who said I liked 'em?" The response throws me off guard, but before I can form a valid argument, he speaks again. "Never assume _anything _about _anyone_. You never know who they truly are beneath the mask."

"I thought you said you didn't wear a mask," I point out.

"I don't. No, no, I paint my true self on the outside. Everyone else, on the other hand, well they're all hiding."

"Not everyone wears a mask."

"Sure they do. Morality's a bad joke, Harley. You'll see. Take off the mask, destroy the persona, and everything falls to pieces. You take away someone's mask and everything just comes pouring out. Lies, _murder_, adultery, corruption, greed, you name it. You take away someone's mask and the world leaves 'em to be eaten and picked apart by the vultures. It's a _funny _world we live in."

"How is that funny?" I question, trying to get some insight into his mind.

"You take away someone's mask, show everyone just how bad they are and _BAM!_" The Joker bangs his fist against the table loudly, startling me enough to jump in my seat. "Suddenly they're _bad_, they're a freak, a criminal. The funny part is, take away the person's mask who took theirs away and you're faced with the same situation. Morality, Harley, is a joke worse than one of mine."

I don't even bother correcting the name this time. "Morality is what holds society together, don't you think? Without it, the world would be in utter disarray. If people could do whatever they wanted without conscience or consequence, the world would be in absolute chaos," I point out.

"Chaos isn't a _bad_ thing," he informs me, shaking his head.

"It's not a _good_ thing either," I retort. "Let's talk about something else. Is there something in particular you wanted to talk about during this session?"

The Joker raises an eyebrow at me openly letting him control the conversation. "Let's talk about you, doc."

"There's not much to talk about," I deflect.

"Mmm, and why's that?"

"I'm not very interesting. You, on the other hand, are _very_ interesting, so let's get back to talking about you."

He lets out a hearty chuckle. "You remember what I told you about doctors and, uh, personal questions?"

"Yes, I do," I reply slowly, his words echoing in my mind.

"Then tell me, Harley, what's the most fun you've ever had in your entire life?" he asks, and it feels almost like a challenge.

"Dr. Quinzel," I correct for the countless time. I think for a moment, debating whether or not I should answer. "When I was in college, my best friend and I went down to the beach one day during spring break," I finally tell him. "We rented jet skis and spent the whole day racing them and trying to do tricks. We looked like idiots, I'm sure, but it was fun nonetheless."

"Did you like the speed?" he questions, leaning towards me.

"It was scary, but it was most of the fun," I reply honestly.

"You should try robbing a bank," he tells me. "All the rush without the, uh, sunburn."

"Jet skiing and robbing a bank are two very different things."

"You can find similarities between almost anything," he tells me. "Take Batman and myself. Batman is this bright and shining hero, this dark knight, and I'm, uh, me. You could say that we both take matters into our own hands. Batman takes it upon himself to, uh, _save_ the little citizens of Gotham, whereas I try to send them a message. Batman's smart enough to fool me occasionally and I'm smart enough to fool Batman."

"Can I ask you something," I interject, an idea coming to mind. I'm hesitant in asking it, but his answer could be beneficial to his progress. Not to mention I'm genuinely curious about the answer myself.

"Isn't that what I'm here for?" he drawls.

"Do you like Batman or do you hate him?"

"The world isn't separated into black and white, Harley. No, no, _no_. There are splotches of color thrown across the board. I don't have to hate him and I don't have to like him. Batman completes me and I complete him. He's the yin to my yang, he'd be lost without me."

"Really?" I inquire.

"Well, nothing's ever certain when comes to other people," he mutters. "You see, he won't kill me because of some misplaced sense of righteousness and I won't kill him because he's just too much fun. Without me, he'd have nothing to do but stop petty crime. And without him, I'd be bored."

"What about Batman makes him fun?"

"Well, his plans and his, uh, rules for one. I can take his little plans and turn them on themselves, ruining everything, upsetting everything. Our little fights add to the chaos and the fear of the city, you know. And his rules," the Joker lets out a sharp bark of laugh, "his rules are the cherry on top. I keep trying to break those rules of his. I keep trying to make him see the truth behind this city, but he just _won't_. He's truly incorruptible. I want to see how far I can go, how far I can take it, before Gotham's little hero breaks."

"I thought you didn't want to kill him."

"Oh, I don't. No, _no_. I want to push him mentally, you see. I wanna see how long it takes before he ends up like me, even if that means our little game has to go on forever."

I take a moment to process this information, before finally deciding that I probably shouldn't push my luck further this week.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. J. I think that's enough for this session," I tell him, standing up. "I'll see you next week." I turn the camera off and make my way towards the door.

"It's a _date_," he calls with a hyena-like laugh following it.

* * *

As I dig deeper into the Joker's files and notes, the more I grow worried about his habits. He ate, from what I gathered, about one meal a day. He ate only a few items at each meal, but never the meal completely. From the few notes that the various on staff cafeteria doctors wrote, he picked and pushed around his food. Some items he ate, other items he didn't even touch. No wonder he's so skinny.

Another thing that I found out, which also worries me, is that he sleeps maybe two hours a day, if even. Some nights he went without sleep completely, but it didn't appear to slow him down any. Even with the use of sedatives and benzo's, he was still wide awake like a kid who ate a ton of candy before bed. I'm reluctant to believe that it's insomnia, but I haven't a clue as to what else might do something like this to him. He couldn't willingly keep himself awake that long, could he?

I can't fix the sleep and I doubt any kind of prescription sleeping pill will work on him, so I set out to fix the eating habits instead. On Wednesday morning, right around eleven thirty, I find myself outside of the patient cafeteria. I call a guard over from inside the cafeteria and put my doctoral authority over the guards to use, which is something that I rarely do.

"How can I help you, doctor?" the guard asks dully. The name tag on his chest reads Parker.

"One of my patients isn't eating well," I explain, trying the honest approach first. "I'd like to know why."

"So go ask them."

"I haven't been authorized by my boss to go in there," I reply truthfully.

"Looks like you're outta luck, doc."

"I'd like you to go in there and ask my patient for me," I request. "Please."

The guard crosses his arms. "Yeah, what's in it for me?" I sigh, realizing that my attempt at honesty has gotten me nowhere. I'm not surprised, though. I doubt that any of the guards in this entire building have ever even heard of the term "favor." There always had to be something in it for them. No wonder the patients managed to pay them off so easily.

"How about I don't write you up for being away from your post?" I suggest sweetly. _Where did that tone come from_? I mentally question, surprised at myself.

"You called me over here, doc."

"Who can prove that?" I challenge. "Maybe I saw you harassing some of the patients in there. Maybe you came over here to threaten me not to tell. Maybe you and your guard buddies in there are all in on it."

"No one's going to believe that. What's with the threats anyway? Aren't you shrinks supposed to be all kind and nice?"

"If you don't think anyone will believe it, then you wont mind me telling," I retort. "Besides, I asked you nicely the first time. Why does there always have to be something in it for you guards? Haven't you ever heard of doing someone a favor?"

"Fine," he grumbles, giving in. I'm silently relieved, mainly because I'm not so sure that I could have actually followed through on my threat. "What do you want me to do?"

"Go in there and tell the Joker that Dr. Quinzel wants to know why he's not eating," I instruct him. After a moment, I add, "Please."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll _try._ I'm not going to guarantee anything," he mutters. "Stay here." Parker disappears into the cafeteria and out of sight. I tap my foot impatiently and glance around every few seconds, feeling like I'm breaking some kind of rule. Technically, I'm not breaking any rules, but I have the strangest feeling that Dr. Arkham's going to come around the corner and demand to know what I'm doing.

Parker comes out a moment later and glares at me. "I'm not talking to that _freak_ again."

"He isn't a _freak_, he's a _patient_," I correct. It's a pet peeve of mine when people call the patients names. "Did he say anything?"

"He said plenty," he tells me vaguely. I have a feeling that the Joker had put his intuitive skills to use. I doubt that the Joker really ripped into Parker in the short amount of time that he was in there, but maybe he hinted at something enough to piss the guard off.

"Did he say anything about the food?" I question, letting the guard know that I'm not interested in what other things the Joker had brought up.

"Yeah he said it was "sweet" of you to worry, but that if you really want to know then you need to pay him a visit."

"Thanks," I mutter absentmindedly. "Which doctor is overseeing lunch today?"

"There isn't an overseeing doctor today, just the guards. Dr. Cassidy was supposed to do it, but she and her replacement were called into a meeting. I told her the guards could handle it," he replies with a shrug. "A sedative works better and faster than trying to talk the patients down anyway."

I cross my arms and chew on my bottom lip, debating the idea that I shouldn't even be considering. I'm not authorized to speak with the Joker outside of our therapy sessions. I've already broken that rule once on the first day that he was here, should I really risk it again? No, I shouldn't. It's a stupid idea. Dr. Arkham would be livid if he found out, especially if I went in there over something as small as eating habits.

The Joker knew this, he knew that I could get in trouble for talking to him outside of a standard environment, so why tempt me? He doesn't want me to lose my job or get thrown off of his case, or at least I think he doesn't, so then why? Maybe he was testing me, seeing how far I'd go as a doctor to help my patient. Or maybe he just wanted to see if I was too good to break the rules.

That last possibility seems to be the most likely. "I'm going in the cafeteria," I tell the guard. "I'll be in there two minutes tops. I would appreciate it if you would please refrain from telling my boss."

"I'd appreciate it if you would refrain from writing me up over something I didn't do," he replies.

"Deal." I push through the cafeteria doors and scan the room. I spot the Joker sitting unsurprisingly alone on the far left side of the room. I push aside all of my doubtful thoughts and walk over to his table, silently hoping that the other patients won't mention my being here to anyone.

"Why aren't you eating?" I ask, taking a seat in front of the Joker. The plate in front of him remains untouched, aside from a half eaten apple and a once sealed small plastic cup of peaches.

"Worried about me, doc?" he questions, raising an eyebrow. "I'm flattered and all, but don't you have more, uh, _important_ things to do? Ya know, patients to cure, minds to save?"

"When I learn that my patients are starving themselves, it becomes a priority of mine to find out why," I answer smoothly.

"Well, the food isn't exactly five star here, doc." He picks up his plastic spoon and scoops up some of the mush that vaguely resembles stuffing. He lets the food drip and fall chunkily off of the spoon for emphasis. "_See_, this stuff could kill somebody."

"You aren't fooling me," I reply calmly. He's a well-known criminal, he can't just walk into a nice restaurant or go through the drive through or waltz into a grocery store. He's probably used to eating bad quality food, considering he has to make do with what he has at any given time. "I know that there's some other reason."

"Is my explanation not _good_ enough for you, Harley?" he quips, letting his spoon clank against his Styrofoam plate. He pushes it aside and rests his arms on the table, leaning towards me.

"I would like you to address me by Dr. Quinzel," I inform him, exasperated in repeating it. "Your answer is fine, the food here is rather unappetizing," I agree. "But I'm not convinced. There has to be some other reason."

"I like that about you, Harley," he tells me. "The other doctors would be thrilled for an answer, they wouldn't press it. No, no, they'd be too wrapped in all that, uh, _progress_. But _you_," he wags his index finger at me, "you're not satisfied with simple answers. No, you want to know the truth. You want to get to the bottom of things."

His tongue darts at the corners of his mouth and then he adds, "I'm not exactly the, uh, most _liked_ patient here, in case you haven't noticed, doc." I can feel my eyebrows knit together in confusion. What did that have to do with eating? He sighs, catching onto my confusion. "It wouldn't be the first time someone replaced the salt with a dash of arsenic, if you, uh, catch my drift."

"You think someone's been poisoning your food?" I question.

"No, no,_ no_. It's probably all in my head," he replies mockingly with a short laugh.

"If you think someone's poisoning your food, then I need to know. We can have them investigated," I tell him reassuringly.

"Oh, _Harley_," he clucks. "Harley, Harley, Harley. You think only one person's got a, uh, _grudge_ against me?" He lets out a loud bark of laughter, drawing the attention of the guards. I quickly wave them off as his laughter dies down.

"I can't help you if you don't tell me a name," I tell him pointedly.

"_Help_? You think I want help?" He bursts into another fit of giggles.

"No, I don't think you want it. I think you need it."

"I think _you're_ the one who needs help, Harley," he tells me.

"Why's that?"

"You're too _serious_, too formal. You don't smile enough," he tells me, an air of truthfulness to his tone. He believes what he's saying. "I know you, doc. You think that just because I haven't given you the same, uh, _special_ treatment as the other doctors means that I don't know your fears, but I do. You're worried that you're going to keep doing this forever. That one day you're going to wake up and realize that you're all alone and that all of those little opportunities to live and have fun are long gone. The only thing you'll have to show for yourself is all of this time put into one little _job_."

"I shouldn't even be in here right now," I tell him, ignoring everything he just said. "I'll see you tomorrow at ten."

This time, he makes no parting remark as I turn on my heel to leave. He doesn't have to. He knows that what he said weighs heavy on my mind, heavy enough to distract me and toy with my mind for a little while.

* * *

"You wanted to see me?" I ask Dr. Arkham, shutting his office door behind me. I take a seat in front of his desk, knowing with a sinking feeling that I'm in trouble. I've been caught red handed with my hand in the cookie jar.

"I understand that you paid a visit to the cafeteria today," he begins.

"That's right," I answer, making no move to deny it. "I was passing by and one of the guards told me that there wasn't a doctor on staff, so I went in to take a look," I lie. "To make sure everything was all right."

"Really? I heard you were talking to some of the patients," he tells me, suspicion evident in his tone. "Only one patient actually. The Joker to be exact. The only thing is, I don't remember giving you clearance to talk to him outside of your therapy sessions."

"You didn't," I admit, my heart sinking with each word coming out of his mouth. "It's just that he wasn't he eating and I wanted to know why. I was worried about his well being."

"He told you about his eating habits for five minutes?"

"Well, no. The conversation got carried away," I explain, nervously picking at the bottom of my skirt. "You know how he gets to going off about things."

"Did he tell you why he wouldn't eat?"

"At first he gave me some flimsy excuse, but he eventually told me that it wouldn't surprise him if someone was slipping something into his food. He said that it wouldn't be the first time someone replaced the salt with arsenic," I explain. "I tried to get him to give me names, but he didn't seem to know any in particular."

"Did you two talk about anything else?"

"He tried to play on some of my life fears, but I evaded the conversation and left," I admit. "And no, I don't think that it was an attempt to break me either. I think he just wanted to show me how easily he _could_ break me if he wanted to." Dr. Arkham stares at me for a long moment, then rests his chin on his fist.

"You know I could take you off this case for this," he informs me sternly. I nod, silently cursing myself. "I'm not going to, though. I want to try something different with this information. It's unorthodox and against protocol, but something tells me that the Joker won't mind."

"What is it?"

"You'll see tomorrow. I don't want you to have prepared anything for it, he'll see that a mile away. Oh, I almost forgot." He digs around in his desk for a moment, pulls out a red card, and hands it to me. A white Christmas tree fills up half of the card and the other half is filled with information about Arkham's annual Christmas party. "They handed them out yesterday morning when you were in your session with Julian Day. I forgot to give you your invitation before you left yesterday."

"Thanks." I glance at the card, briefly reviewing the information. Most of the information is identical to last years, aside from the actual place of the event. "Do I have to bring a date?"

"You can if you want to, but you don't have to," he replies. "Oh, but don't forgot your staff ID, they won't let you in otherwise."

* * *

Thursday morning, still completely clueless as to what Dr. Arkham's unorthodox plan is, I walk into my office to find a painting propped up against my desk. A painting that I definitely did not put there. A painting that oddly resembles me, or at least I'm pretty sure it does.

I inspect the painting carefully, checking beneath it to make sure that there's not a bomb or anything harmful like that on it. From what I can tell, the painting seems to be clean of anything life threatening, unless there are microscopic wires hidden in the thin fibers of the canvas. I know that I should probably call someone down here right away to check it out and give their "expert" opinion on whether or not it's safe, but curiosity gets the best of me. I make my way to the front of the painting and take a step back to examine it.

Although most of the face is shadowed in and blurred with brush strokes, I can make out a few distinct features. There appears to be a black domino mask ringed around the blue eyes of the person in the portrait. The black lines of the mask are more defined, faintly sticking out from the dark shadowing around them. The eyes of the portrait are relatively untouched, drawing most of the painting's attention with their sharp, vibrant color.

The lips are a dark red and expand outward into a messy Joker like smile. The blonde hair is drawn into pigtails that messily frame each side of the portrait. The clothes of the portrait are mainly blurred and cut off from the rest, but they're distinctively red and black. At the corner of the frame is a single, one letter signature. –J.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Dr. Arkham stands by my side examining the painting intensely. "So, what does this mean exactly? That he's obsessed with you?"

"No, I don't think it's that," I reply, although the possibility had crossed my mind. "I think it's supposed to be his interpretation of my true self. This is probably what he thinks I'd be like with my mask off."

"But you're wearing a mask in the picture," he points out. "Isn't that contradictory."

"No, I think it means something. Maybe, since I'm not technically wearing a mask in real life, he sees my inner self as wearing one. Maybe he put the mask on my inner self to mock society," I suggest.

"I don't see how it's your true self. You look relatively the same, aside from the mask and the smile."

"I think each difference between me and the picture represents something. He always talks about how I don't have enough fun, so this is what I make of it," I begin. "The mask is to mock society or maybe even show me as a criminal, since he told me that I ought to rob a bank. The pigtails, I think, represent all the childlike fun or just fun in general that I missed or am missing out on. And the smile is to show all of the enjoyment that I would be having if I took my mask off," I finish.

"You got all of that out of pigtails, a mask, and a smile?"

"Clearly the Joker wants me to see something, otherwise he wouldn't have bothered to break into my office," I answer with a shrug. "I'm just trying to see what he's trying to show me."


	6. Bang Bang

_Bang, bang, that awful sound  
_**Nancy Sinatra, _Bang Bang_**

Dr. Jeremiah Arkham's idea is unorthodox alright, considering it puts me back in the place that just yesterday I was chided at for being in. Of course, now I have clearance so I'm not breaking any rules, but still. I went to the cafeteria yesterday to understand why my patient wasn't eating, which is a valid concern in my doctoral book. Dr. Arkham wanting to stage an entire therapy session in the cafeteria, on the other hand, is just unethical.

Regardless of that undeniable knowledge, the idea is also kind of brilliant. Well, it will be brilliant if it works. The Joker is opposed to order and methodical planning and it's no secret that nearly everything about our therapy sessions, aside from the actual conversations themselves, are planned out from the day that they happen to the room that they're in. Meeting in the cafeteria, however, is far from planned and methodical. Compared to everything else, it seems sloppy and hints at desperation. The Joker will either admire the tactic or rip into it. Hopefully, either reaction will bring in something that we can use in his case against the DA.

The DA, on the other hand, are going to absolutely _hate_ this approach. They're undoubtedly going to try to write this session off in court for showing patient favoritism or something like that. Hopefully, whatever we get out of this session will overthrow the court's immediate dismissal of the session. If not, we'll only have two or three more sessions to get something usable out of the Joker.

I step into the cafeteria at promptly 8:05 am, holding a hand held video camera in my right hand, and spot the Joker sitting alone in the same spot he was in on Wednesday. As far as I know, the Joker is completely unaware that his therapy session has been moved to breakfast and as I walk over to him, I silently hope that he won't react negatively towards me due to the surprise of the situation. But then again, he'll probably be able to figure out within the first few minutes of seeing me that I had no prior idea either.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. J," I greet pleasantly, taking a seat in front of him. His eyebrows knit together in confusion as I place the camcorder on the table, facing the lens towards him. I swing the small screen of the camcorder out and flip the on switch up. "This is Dr. Harleen Quinzel overseeing Patient 4479. The date is Thursday, November 28th and the time is 8:05 am. The session's location has temporarily been changed to the cafeteria."

The Joker leans forward and, as if it's a secret, whispers, "Is this a _dream_?"

"No, this our therapy session for the day. Dr. Arkham thought it'd be nice to change the scenery."

"Good, I thought I was having _that_ dream again," he retorts, pushing his Styrofoam plate of food away. I faintly, but worriedly, notice that his food is just as untouched as yesterday's. The only thing he's touched is the carton of milk and the once sealed plastic cup of various fruit. He hasn't even glanced at the main meal, which is some sort of lumpy sludge that somewhat resembles oatmeal.

"And what dream is that?" I question, trying to keep the eagerness out of my voice. Dreams were a good start to the conversation, they could tell us something about his subconscious.

"I've only had the dream once really, but it was _strange_, even to a guy like me. It must've been the drugs," he muses. "It's not something you want to know, doc. It starts with you, uh, ripping your face off and it just gets real _messy_ after that," he brushes off.

"Ah," I conclude, unable to form a complete response. Skin typically represents a shield or a protection of one's inner self in dreams. But if he's the patient and we're trying to see under his skin, why would he dream about me ripping my skin off?

"Did you like my present?" he questions, his voice breaking me out of my thoughts. He puts his hands on the table and I watch the gesture warily. The only thing shackled in here are his feet, leaving his hands unbound so that he can eat normally. The lack of handcuffs worries me.

"It was a nice painting, very skillful," I answer cautiously. "However, behavior like that won't be tolerated here."

The Joker sighs. "Tolerated _this_, tolerated _that_. You doctors and guards sound like broken records."

"This is the second time that this-" The Joker raises an eyebrow and I quickly catch my mistake, swearing silently in my head. It certainly wouldn't look good for me to just now mention the flower I found on my desk on his first day here at Arkham. "I mean this is the _first_ time you've broken out of your cell," I correct. "Dr. Arkham and the rest of the staff are going to be lenient with you this time, but you can't let it happen again. Are we clear?"

The Joker rolls his eyes. "_Mm-hmm_," he drawls.

"I'm serious," I tell him firmly. "Stunts like that play right into the DA's hands. You're practically feeding them excuses to send you to Blackgate. Is that what you want, to be locked up in a five by five cell with two inch thick steel walls?"

"I'm not going to Blackgate," he replies, leaning back in his chair. "No, I'm _not_."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Uh, call it intuition," he replies with a smirk. "Speaking of places to be, why are you _here_?"

"It's Thursday."

"Didn't you say it's Thanksgiving? Shouldn't you be with family, having some big heartwarming dinner?" he muses. "Shouldn't you be a part of all of the little family, uh, traditions. Ya know, like lying about your job to your family, making it seem better than it really is? Or pretending to like your parents when deep down you really_ loathe_ 'em?"

"I don't hate my parents," I reply. "And no, I'm not doing any of those things today. None of my family lives here in Gotham. Let's get back to the-"

"Where's your family from? _Brooklyn_?"

"How did you know that?" I demand, feeling a wave of nervousness. Did he pay one of the guards to spill the details on my family? My mind automatically jumps to several of the worst conclusions.

"You're accent comes out in certain words, no matter how hard you try to hide it with that, uh, _professional_ tone of yours," he retorts. "I don't know why you'd want to hide the accent in the first place, it's _much_ more interesting than that dull tone you're using now."

"Oh," I reply, relieved that my fearful thoughts have been squashed. "I need to know if you actually got out of your cell last night or not, for paperwork reasons," I tell him, trying to bring the conversation back to the problem at hand. "You don't have to tell me a name if you got one of the guards to put the painting in my office for you," I assure him.

"Now why would I pay the guards to something for me, hmm? If you want something done _right_, you've got to do it yourself," he tells me, waving an index finger towards me. "Sometimes ya gotta have help, but don't let the little players mess around with the big things. No, no, they're _bound _to screw something up."

"Then you were the one who put the painting in my office," I deduce.

"_Mm-hmm_. I wouldn't have had to if the, uh, finger painting people would've given it you like they said. _See_, I told you, ya gotta do everything yourself."

"If you were already out of your cell, then why didn't you try to escape?" I press, confused. Any one of the asylum patients would have leapt at the chance to escape like starving animals to meat.

"I'm here because I _want_ to be here, not because anyone's forcing me. I don't _want_ to escape," he tells me simply. "I want to _help_ you, Harley."

"Help me?" I repeat incredulously.

"_Mm-hmm_, help you to see the real you. To be honest, doc, the real you is a lot better than this, uh, uptight professional one. You fit the role of it nicely, don't get me wrong, but it just doesn't suit you. You've got so much more... _potential_."

"That's very nice of you to want to help, Mr. J, but I'm the doctor and you're the patient. I'm here to help you."

"Everyone needs help sometimes, Harley," he tells me knowingly.

"It's Dr. Quinzel and you're the one who needs help right now, not me," I tell him. "Dr. Brody's only had two sessions alone with you and one with me in the room and he's already beginning to file his analysis. He's been studying all of these tapes and notes and I'll be honest with you, it doesn't look so good."

"It's never going to look good to them, Harley, no matter how hard you try. I'm surprised that you haven't picked up and quit already."

"It's Dr. Quinzel," I remind him again firmly. "And why would I do that?"

"I'm a lost cause, doc. Any _sensible_ doctor can see that."

"You aren't a lost cause," I argue. "You're just in need of some help, that's all, even if you're unwilling to admit it."

The Joker laughs, the sound startling me. "Face it, doc, you're obsessed with me. And not just because you want all the, uh, benefits of curing me either. No, you're intrigued, interested, _drawn_ to me." Mentally, I don't deny that statement. I am drawn to him, in a purely professional, learning type way. I've always had sort of a preference for extreme personalities. "You just can't get enough of me."

"You're an interesting character," I admit. "And I do want to help you. There is no magic cure."

He chuckles lowly, the sound close to a growl. "I don't need help, Harley. I kill people because I _want_ to. I blow things up because I _want_ to. I threaten and endanger the lives of all of Gotham's little citizens because I _want_ to. Sensing a pattern yet, doc?" Uh-oh, this definitely wouldn't look good to the courts. "You can't _fix_ me."

"Why's that?" I ask, impulsively switching the camera off. The Joker raises an eyebrow at the gesture.

"You don't see the way that I do. Not yet anyways," he mutters. "But once you do, you won't be trying to help me. No, you'll see why I'm trying to help _you_. I'm not the crazy one here. No, no, I'm the only person who can see this city and all of it's people for what they truly are. And let me tell ya, doc, it's not a pretty sight."

"I think that's enough for today," I tell him, standing up and grabbing the camera. I want to see things from his perspective, but not in the way that he's describing it. I want to see it from a doctoral point of view, not whatever view he wants me to see it from.

"Would you like to know which part of your picture I think is the best?" he questions, drawing my attention back to him.

"Which part?"

"The smile. Know why? 'Cause a smile on that face would be a _perfect_. Too bad I've only seen you smile once, and that time wasn't even genuine. I bet a real smile on you would look even better than on _me_." He lets out a small chuckle. "Come on, _Harley_, give me a smile."

I'm not sure what compels me to do so exactly, but as I turn around to leave, I find myself managing a weak smile.

* * *

The next day, sometime around five o'clock, just before I'm about to leave, Dr. Jeremiah Arkham enters my office and shuts the door behind him. He's silent for a long moment, eyeing me with an expression that I can't quite make out, and a shiver of nervousness runs through me. Something is clearly wrong if he felt the need to come directly to my office, but what is it? I rack my mind for something that I could've done wrong, but I can't think of anything, which leads me to the conclusion that this is about the only other person that Dr. Arkham and I talk about in such confinement.

"Dr. Arkham," I greet, breaking the heavy silence. "What brings you to my office?"

"You're off the case, Harleen," he tells me, his voice solemn and morose.

The first words out of my mouth are, "What?" He couldn't take me off the Joker's case, not now. I was finally starting to make a breakthrough. The Joker was talking to me, actually _talking_.

"I'm taking you off of the Joker case."

"You can't just take me off of the case!" I exclaim, standing up. "I'm the only one who's gotten through to him. I'm just now starting to make progress. Yesterday's session didn't end that great, I know, but we're finally starting to get somewhere with him."

"I know, I know," he admits, running a hand through his dark brown hair. "If it makes any difference, you aren't the main reason as to why you're being kicked off. There are several factors coming into play here and this... this is the best course of action."

"Whose fault is it?" I demand.

"Dr. Brody's," he tells me with a sigh. "He doesn't think that you're fit for the case. He said that if I don't take you off of the case now, he'll tell the DA that the Joker's initial analysis was biased because you showed signs of favoritism towards him." Before I can even begin to rant, he holds up a hand to stop me. "I know you weren't biased, I do, but if he were to go through with that accusation it could ruin your career."

"If you take me off of this case, then the Joker's fate is pretty much set. Unless you can get him to speak to another doctor, he'll go to Blackgate."

"Even if I were to let you stay on this case, you'd probably only get one more session with the Joker before the DA shut you down," he informs me. "Would it really be worth it, Harleen, to lose your career over a psychotic clown who will probably end up in Blackgate anyway?"

"It's not fair to the Joker," I tell him, crossing my arms. "Each patient deserves a fair share of analysis before they're condemned to four, two inch thick, steel walls."

"Some people would argue against that point. He's a menace to society, he's probably better off at Blackgate anyway."

"You're giving up that easy?" I question incredulously. "What happened to advancing the psychological field and making a big breakthrough for Arkham?"

"We're still going to _try_," he snaps. "I'm just telling you how I see it and from the looks of it, the situation isn't good."

I take a deep breath, trying to keep my professionalism in check. "Who's going to break the news to the Joker?"

"Dr. Brody said he'd tell the Joker during their session," he glances at his watch briefly, "which should've finished by now. My advice to you is-"

He's cut off by a nurse abruptly busting into my office. "Dr. Arkham, come quick," she tells him breathlessly. "It's the Joker. He managed to get a gun off one of the guards. He's threatening to shoot Dr. Brody."

"Dammit," Dr. Arkham growls. "Take me to him and get a sedative ready. If we can't talk him out of doing anything drastic, then we're going to have to take action." I stand up to follow Dr. Arkham, but he quickly stops me. "This doesn't concern you, Harleen, you'll only make the situation worse." As he strides out of the room, I waver for a moment and then sit back down at my desk.

_Worse?_

I, the only person who could probably make any progress in trying to calm the Joker down, would only make the situation _worse_? I laugh to myself. _Fine, let Dr. Brody die_, I think to myself. _He wasn't doing much good anyway_.

It takes me a full moment to realize just how terrible that thought alone is. What's wrong with me today?

* * *

At around six thirty that night, I find myself in one of the shady backrooms of the Iceberg Lounge. Pam and Selina have somehow convinced me to come to the place where quite a few people would be more than happy to kill me. I didn't seen any of the previous Arkham patients on our way up here, but there's a faint sense of paranoia in the back of my mind. That paranoia doesn't just stem from the possibility of running into someone who wants to kill me either. It would look awfully suspicious if someone saw me, an Arkham doctor, entering one of the backrooms with the unmistakable, slightly green skinned villain, Poison Ivy.

"If you want, Harls, I can take a trip down to Dr. Brody's house and see if he's got any valuables," Selina offers from her seat on the couch beside me. "He's working for the DA and can afford to live in Metropolis, surely he's got a few goodies lying around. If not, I can always trash the place."

"Mm," Pam agrees, taking a sip of her cherry vodka. "If he uses plastic bags or bottled water, I'll be happy to suffocate him, for the good of the environment of course." On second thought, she tentatively adds, "Although, maybe this is better for you in the long run."

"What are you talking about? This could make Harley's career," Selina defends. I sigh and take a deep sip of my mojito. I'm tempted to giggle uncontrollably at the fact that two vigilante criminals are arguing over the well being of me, an asylum psychiatrist, but I quickly squash the laughter, knowing that Pam would undoubtedly use the uncharacteristic giggles to prove her point further.

"He could kill her," Pam replies flatly.

"Anyone at Arkham could kill her," Selina points out. "That danger is nothing new to her."

"Gee, _thanks_," I snort.

"You know it's true," Selina shoots at me. "Harley knew the risk when she took the job. Besides, she's perfectly capable of handling herself around criminals. I mean, look at who she's with right now. A crazy plant lady and a cat burglar. If she can put up with us all the time, I'm sure she can handle a psychotic clown once a week."

"It's just not _fair_," I interject into their argument. "I was finally starting to make progress with him and," I finish my sentence with a gulp of alcohol, feeling no need to retell the injustice of my day. "Stupid DA psychologist. He's the one that's biased, all because the Joker got under his skin and made him quiver in his polished shoes. What did he expect? For the Joker to be nice and polite and cooperative?" I let out a short, irritated laugh. "It's practically the Joker's job to break people down, did he really expect the Joker to act any different just because he's locked up in a cell?"

"How did the Joker get under his skin?" Selina asks curiously.

"He said that he'd kill his family, but I don't think he actually meant it. He finds everyone's fears and plays on them, it's nothing personal. Well, I suppose it is, but he just does it to get what he wants. Fear is his number one weapon."

"You're defending him," Selina tells me incredulously.

"I'm not defending him," I argue. "I'm just giving a reason as to why he says things like that."

"You _like_ him," Pam announces.

"I do _not_ like him," I dismiss, taking another sip of my drink. "I'm just trying to see things from his perspective."

"You like him," she repeats knowingly. "Why else would he keep you up at night, hmm?"

"Because he's an enigma," I justify. "The way he talks, the way he toys with people, the things he talks about, he's just so…" I pause, looking for the right word, "_intriguing_. Not to mention it's so incredibly frustrating trying to diagnose him."

"Well, what does he think of you," Selina presses.

"Me? I don't know."

"You've got to know _something_," Pam tells me. "You did say that you're the only doctor he hasn't tried to kill or mentally break."

"He said I wasn't like the other doctors," I reply with a shrug. "Maybe he thinks I'm the only one genuinely trying help him." Even to my own ears, that theory sounds weak. "Or maybe he thinks I'm playable and is going to use me as a pawn," I add with a sigh. "There's no way of knowing now. He'll be locked away in Blackgate before Christmas time."

"Don't be so glum about it," Pam soothes. "Think of it as an opportunity."

"An opportunity for _what_?"

"An opportunity to put away a man who endangers the city."

"There could be something wrong with him that makes him do the things he does," I explain dismally. "Something that we can treat or help. If there's something wrong with his mind or if there's a deep rooted problem that can be helped, then he might be fit to rejoin society after years, or maybe even decades, of therapy. They're taking away his _only_ opportunity to be helped, if he does indeed need help, which I think he does."

"From what you've told me, Harls, he doesn't exactly seem to _want_ help," Pam replies.

"It doesn't really matter if he _wants_ it or not. It matters if he _needs_ it. Him not wanting it doesn't mean that he shouldn't get it, it just means that it'll be harder to give."

"You sound a little too invested in this case," Selina notes. "I know it sucks and all, but I think you just need to take a step back and breathe."

"I'm not too invested," I dismiss, taking a deep sip of my drink. "I just want to help, that's all."

"You psychiatrists belong in that institution more than we do," Pam announces with a laugh. "You've got to be crazy for trying to help _us_."

"There's insanity in everyone," Selina muses. "Some more than others."

"You've got that right," I mutter, glancing around the room, just now taking it in. It has the signature Iceberg Lounge theme of icy white floors and blue walls, along with icicle lights, but it's far less exciting than the main club room, not that I'm complaining. I don't particularly like being surrounded by sweaty bodies and music so loud that it shakes my ribcage.

The music is still audible through the walls, but it's considerably less loud. Thankfully, this room also happens to be free of a dance floor. Instead, it has a large icy looking table in the center of the room with ice themed chairs all around it. There are three silver couches in the back, which the three of us are sitting on, but for the most part, it seems more like a meeting room than an actual club room.

"How did you manage to score us this room?" I ask Pam curiously.

"I do a few deals back here from time to time," she informs me. "Cobblepot usually lets me back here whenever I want with no questions asked as long as I give him a cut of the pay."

"Deals?"

"Yeah, you know, for some of my toxins? I don't give anyone anything important of course, but I exchange some of my more well-known poisons from time to time," she replies.

"Right," I murmur. We hardly ever talk about her criminal life, so it's news to me that Poison Ivy makes some of her money here, in one of Gotham's most posh clubs.

"What about you, Cat?" Pam questions, turning to Selina. "Have you ever done any deals here?"

"Ah, once or twice," she replies with a shrug. "Deals aren't really my thing, I prefer to keep the proceeds all to myself. It's cleaner and less faulty that way, not to mention I get more of a profit."

I'm about to reply when my cell phone goes off. "Who is it?" Pam asks skeptically. I glance at the caller ID, which reads Jeremiah Arkham.

"It's work," I reply hesitantly.

"Harley!"

"It could be important!" I shoot back. "One of the patients could be loose or holding a hostage or something like that. It could be an emergency."

"Fine, but you're buying the next round of drinks," Selina warns.

"Deal, now everybody shush." I accept the call and bring the phone up to my ear. "Dr. Harleen Quinzel."

"You're a hard woman to find, doc," the Joker's voice greets my ears. I feel my face turn a sheet whiter and sense Pam and Selina's eyes on me. "It took me a while, but I finally gotcha. Even if it isn't in person," he tells me, sounding almost disappointed.

"Mr. J," I greet cautiously. "What did you want to find me for? Is everything alright?"

"Well, I gotta admit, doc, I was little, uh, _hurt_ when I heard that you had given up," he clucks. "I didn't think you had it in you."

"I didn't give up," I tell him slowly. "Who told you that?"

"Oh, just an old friend," he replies, smacking his lips on the other side of the phone. I have a feeling that his old friend is a DA employed psychiatrist. "The problem is, this friend of mine is a schemer. And with schemers, ya never know what's true and what's not until you can see how it, uh, _benefits_ the person. Ya see, I like to get to the bottom of things- like you, so I thought that I'd call and make sure that my friend here really is, uh, scheming. I hope I'm not... _interrupting_ something."

"You're not interrupting anything," I tell him lightly. "Does Dr. Arkham know that you're using his phone?" I question, trying to bring the subject away from Dr. Brody. First and foremost, I have to make sure that Dr. Arkham is okay because I doubt that he gave the Joker his cell phone without some sort of fight.

"Of course, Harley. He's right here, uh, _supervising_."

"Can I speak to him?"

"Uh, he's a little _busy_ right now." I can hear the faint sound of muffled voices in the background, as well as a few panicked ones. "Where are you, doc?" he questions and I can hear the sneaking suspicion in his voice.

"I'm at home," I lie.

"No you aren'_t_," he retorts, popping the last t. "Lying doesn't suit you, _Harleen_," he chides, the use of my full first name making him sound almost like a scolding parent. "You sound like you're at a bar. It's still pretty early," he muses. "You aren't an alcoholic, are you?"

"No, I'm just out with some friends," I tell him truthfully, seeing no use in lying to him.

"_Celebrating_ something?"

"More like having a pity party actually," I reply honestly. "It was my friend's idea, they thought I needed some alcohol to lift my spirits."

"Mm, and why would your spirits need, uh, _lifting_?"

"I could've been jobless before the month's end," I tell him. "I suppose we could be celebrating that I didn't actually lose my job, but it doesn't really feel like something that should be celebrated at the moment." This is the most honest I've ever been with him and it worries me. What worries me the most isn't how easy it is to be honest with him, it's what he might do with that honesty.

"Who, uh, threatened your job?"

"It's not really my place to name names."

"It's not really certain doctor's jobs to _lie_ to their patients."

"I'm not lying to you," I justify.

"I'm not talking about you, _Harley_." He lets out a breathy laugh on the other end of the phone. "The doctors in this hospital always try to make their job seem like it's the most important," he tsks. "Ya know, it doesn't matter how important you are, only that you do your job. 'Cause if you don't do your job, then someone else might just _take_ it. There are two kinds of take, though. The kind where do it 'cause you want it bad enough and the corrupt kind of take. The stealing kind."

"Couldn't you argue that they're the same?" I question, standing up to pace around the room. "If you take something because you want it bad enough, couldn't you do so in a corrupt way?"

"You tell me, Harley," he challenges. "Was it corrupt of you to take my case when you knew that there were doctors more, uh, qualified for it than _you_?"

"Well, no. I don't think so," I answer slowly, thinking it out. "But-"

"Mm, and what about our little chaperone?" There's a sinking feeling in my chest. "He might not have, uh, _taken_ your job, but he sure did _squash_ it. You wanna know why?"

"Because he was afraid?"

"No, no, _no_. He thought you weren't doing it _right_. He thought that you were in the way, so he took action. I told you, Harley, when the masks are off everyone becomes the opposite of morality. Our little chaperone revealed his dirty side this evening and I bet his, uh, _employers_ wouldn't be too happy if they found out what a schemer he is. Especially if that little, uh, trait turned up in court. I bet they'd turn on him, fire him on the spot without a second thought. They'd cast him out into the street and leave him to rot," the Joker muses. "Ya see, Harley, society doesn't care who you are before the mask comes off. As far as they're concerned, you're just a dog with rabies and you know what society does to dogs with rabies?"

"What?" I question nervously.

"They put 'em down." There's the sharp _BANG_ of a gunshot on the other end of the phone that sends my right ear ringing. "Oh, and by the way, Dr. Arkham's just _dying_ for you to pay him a visit."

There's the sound of maniacal, hyena-like laughter and then the line goes dead.


	7. Blood

_So give them blood, blood, gallons of the stuff!_  
**My Chemical Romance, _Blood_**

Since Selina's the designated driver and I'm in a bit of hurry considering someone might have just been killed, we're forced to leave Pam alone at the bar. It really wouldn't be a good thing for her to be seen at the Arkham gates anyway. As much as I feel bad about doing it, I'm fairly certain that Poison Ivy, of all people, can take care of herself. She wouldn't be there for long by herself, forty five minutes maximum, considering the Iceberg Lounge is only around fifteen to twenty minutes away from Arkham. But, in spite of my panic to get to Arkham and find out what exactly is going on, I can't help but feel a tinge of guilt in the back of my mind.

In my haste to get to the hospital, I don't have time to change. My outfit isn't too bad for being a doctor, but something that covered more would've been preferable. Oh well, my thick strapped, ruffled red tank top, black cardigan, and black skirt would have to do. Although my heels are higher than usual, I'm fairly certain that I can run in them if I need to. If they proved to be too slow, I could always take them off. Hopefully, I won't have to do any running tonight, but the events ahead of me are a blur of unknown possibilities and that makes me incredibly nervous. I need to be prepared for any and everything.

Selina drops me off at the gate, where I quickly flash the guard my ID card and hurry into the asylum. I make my way up to the fifth floor, where several guards, doctors, and nurses are hustled about. I step out of the elevator and quickly scan the mass of people, looking for anyone in charge. I spot Dr. Leland, who's busying herself with ordering people away from the Cell Block C door, and dash over to her, roughly pushing my way through nurses and orderlies. The stress is clear on her face and I have a sinking feeling that the mess with the Joker is worse than I thought.

"Is he in there?" I ask, gesturing towards the Cell Block C doors. I don't even have to acknowledge who I'm talking about for her to understand. She nods, running a hand through her now slightly frazzled hair.

"He's been asking for you. He wants you to go in there," she tells me solemnly.

"I know, he called me from Dr. Arkham's phone," I quickly explain. "Give me a rundown of what happened after he took Dr. Brody hostage."

"He said that he wouldn't let Dr. Brody go until Dr. Arkham would go in his cell. There was about an hour and a half of arguing before Dr. Arkham finally agreed to go in. After he went in, the Joker didn't let Brody go and changed his terms. He said that if he sees anyone in the cell block, aside from you, he'll kill Dr. Arkham. If we hear gunshots, we have to wait five minutes before entering the cell block. About twenty minutes ago, he killed Brody. We went in there five minutes after the gunshot, but he quickly dismissed us. He wouldn't even let us take the body."

"Do you have eyes inside the hallway?"

"No, he must've paid one of the guards to tape over the cameras," she replies dismally. "It's a mess in there."

"I'm going in," I tell her. "Hold this." I hand her my cell phone and my apartment key, both of which she glances at warily.

"Harleen, you can't go in there," she tells me gravely. "You don't have any control over the situation. He could kill you, or turn you into a second hostage. Until we know what he wants, it's not safe for _anyone_ to go in there."

"Apparently, I'm what he wants if he took the liberty of calling and inviting me himself. And if I don't go in there, he might kill Dr. Arkham," I point out. "Look, if he wants me in there, then it's obviously for a reason. If I can't talk him down, then maybe I can reason with him. I'll be _fine_," I assure her, although I'm not so sure myself. "We at least have to try." Dr. Leland nods and I take that as a go.

I push through the rest of the people blocking the door and scan myself in. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and begin to walk down the hallway. My heels clack loudly against the linoleum floor and each clack makes heart jump a little higher. My nerves are alive beneath my skin with nervousness. This is the first time that I'll be talking to the Joker in a completely uncontrolled environment. Anything could happen. People could die. I could be taken hostage. The uncertainty of it all is utterly and completely nerve wracking.

"_Harley_," the Joker calls from further down the hallway, hearing my echoing footsteps. The other inmates are oddly silent and I can't help but think that maybe they're holding their breath too, waiting to see what's in store for me.

I stop in front of the Joker's cell and turn slowly, afraid of what I might see. My worries aren't disappointed.

The Joker leans against the left wall of his cell, idly toying with the gun in his hands. On the cot behind him is Dr. Arkham who, judging by the thick red welt on his forehead, has been knocked unconscious. On the floor, laying in a pool of blood, is the upturned corpse of Dr. Simon Brody. Those beady eyes of his are empty, staring lifelessly up at the ceiling. Above them, in the middle of his forehead, is a single gaping bullet wound. I stare at him for a long moment, half expecting him to move, but his pale blue fingers don't even twitch.

The sight makes my stomach churn and I have the urge to be sick.

Too entranced by the sickening sight, I'm only faintly aware that the Joker has said anything at all. "_Harley_," he snaps, breaking my horror. I tear my eyes away from Dr. Brody to look up at him and he studies my undoubtedly sickened expression.

"It's Dr. Quinzel," I manage weakly, saying it just for the matter of saying it. There's no reason to be formal, not now. Not with a dead body in the room.

"I _said_, have you ever seen a dead body up close before?"

"In med school," I reply, still dazed at the sight in front of me. The Joker had actually done that, he had actually shot him. It was no secret that he had killed before, but seeing it up close made it _real_.

"I don't mean those cold things they refrigerate for days," he clarifies. "I mean the kind of body that's, uh, _fresh_. The kind who's skin is still warm."

"No," I reply softly. "Not until now."

"Have you ever _felt_ someone die, Harley? Have you ever been there for the moment when what was inside the body just slips away, leaving nothing but a carcass behind?"

"No."

"You ought to try it sometime. People are their most vulnerable in death, especially in those last few moments. You see who people truly are. The cowards beg and plead and make promises they can't keep. The brave ones... now they're the most fun. Most of 'em put up a fight, but some of them embrace it. They take the fact that they're going to die like a champ. Our friend over here," he gives Dr. Brody's corpse a good kick to the ribs, "was a coward."

"Why did you do it?" I question softly, trying to keep my eyes on the Joker and not the body. I want to shut my eyes completely, drown out the bloody sight with darkness, but I need to be alert and focused.

"Uh, do _what_?"

"Kill him. Why did you have to kill him?"

"Because I _wanted _to," he replies. "Disappointed, doc? Did you want some grand explanation? Did ya want me to have done it for _you_?"

"No," I tell him firmly. I had never wanted Dr. Brody dead, I had just wanted him to leave Arkham. He was irritating and rude, but I had never wanted him to die. I had just wanted him to go away, not get shot by the Joker. "No, no, of course not."

"Right, that would be _unprofessional_," he growls. "Although, I do remember a certain, uh, hatred. Hmm, maybe I should've saved you the honor of killing him."

"I didn't hate him," I argue quietly, feeling my composure beginning to slip. "Dr. Brody was just... he was just doing his job. He was wrong and irritating about it, but he was just doing his job."

"Ya know what I think, Harley? I think you wanted him to die. I think that you're, uh, _relieved_ that I killed him," he tells me, smacking his lips together. "I think you're glad he's dead."

"I am not," I reply firmly. I had never wanted Dr. Brody dead. Not once had I ever wished that upon him. Sure, occasionally I had wanted to strangle the arrogant man myself, but everyone thinks like that at times. I had just thought about it to keep my cool in the room with him. I hadn't actually wanted it to happen. Everyone thought like that to keep their composure at times, right? _You're letting him confuse you, Harley_, I tell myself, trying to squash any and all thoughts of Dr. Brody's death. _He's toying with you. Don't let him get to you_.

"_Really_?" the Joker quips, leaning towards me from behind the Plexiglas wall. "Denial doesn't suit you, Harley. But if you want to play it that way," he lets out a sigh, "then you can consider it a, uh, favor."

"How is it a favor if you didn't do it for me?" I point out.

"Now they can't _separate_ us," he tells me with a gleeful laugh. "And that benefits you, doesn't it?"

"How does it benefit me?"

"Oh, I'm sure you can think of a few ways," he drawls. "Would you mind unlocking the door, doc? I find it to be, uh, _rude_ talking from such a distance."

"That's not going to happen."

"I had really hoped to keep Dr. Arkham over here alive, but you can't win 'em all." The Joker raises the gun and I involuntarily take a step forward to stop him.

"I'll open the door, if you promise not to try anything," I propose. I know that this is an incredibly bad idea, but I can't just let Dr. Arkham die by my hands. If I have a chance to prevent his death and I don't take it, then I might as well have wielded the gun myself and I'm not so sure that I can live with myself if I allow that happen.

"_Try_ anything?" he repeats, sounding hurt. "What kind of guy do ya take me for, doc?"

Ignoring that last comment, I step up to the door cautiously and swipe my ID card to release the door lock. The Joker pushes open the Plexiglas paneled steel door with a loud creek and steps out. I take a step back in precaution, my heart beating hard against my chest. He's unshackled, unbound, and guard free. He's virtually free to do anything he wants. It scares the living hell out of me to know that he's unbound, but knowing that he's carrying a gun too... the thought is almost too much to handle.

He takes a step towards me and I take another step back. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't come any further. "I would've preferred to use a knife on our little chaperone over there, but Dr. Arkham wouldn't bring me mine. Guns are too quick for my taste, you can't savor all of the little... emotions. But, I suppose it'll have to do, for now." He pauses for a moment and squints, thinking something through. "What's that saying about beggars?"

"Beggars can't be choosers?" I suggest.

"That's it." He takes another step forward and again, I take a step back. "What's wrong, my dear Harley Quinn? You aren't _scared _of me, are you?"

I don't bother to correct the name as I continue to slink closer and closer to the wall, trying my very best not to read too much into the clown-like name. As hard as I try not to think about it, the thought adds to the fear of the moment. The hallway is empty of guards with guns or doctors with sedatives. There are no heroes around to save me. It's just me, my unconscious boss, a dead body, and the Joker. A free to roam around, unshackled Joker. A Joker who just addressed me by a clown-like name, which he has clearly labeled me as in his head. The situation looks far from good at this point.

"Are you afraid I might... get 'cha!" He jumps towards me and cringe against the wall, letting out a not-so-tough shriek. The Joker bursts into a mad cackling of laughter, coming up for air with long gasps between each laugh.

"That's _enough_," I try to tell him firmly. Much to my disappointment, my voice cracks at the end and it sounds ten times weaker out loud than in my head. The Joker takes a step closer, but I have no more room to step back. He's got me cornered, unless I can make a run for the door. But if I do that, Dr. Arkham will more than likely be shot. I simply can't win.

"You're not calling the shots anymore, doc," he tells me, stopping about a foot away from me. The closeness makes me nervous. He could strike out at any given moment. "I'm running the show now. Speaking of the show, can I ask you a question, doc?"

"Okay," I agree. I didn't really have a choice, did I?

The Joker lifts the gun to my face and I shiver as the barrel of it touches my temple. I cringe away instinctively, but he grabs me by the neck to keep me in place. I feel the coldness of the gun drag painstakingly slowly along the right side of my face. _You're okay_, I tell myself. _He's doing it to scare you, not to hurt you. If he wanted to kill you, he would've gotten it over with already_.

"Would you please stop pointing the gun at me?" I request. He shows no sign of enacting out my plea and instead looks down at me in amusement. This is a bad situation, a very bad situation. A situation that will almost certainly end in bloodshed. The longer we stand here, the more I begin to panic. _Think, Harley, think. How can you stop that gun from going off_?

Talking him down is out of the question, he'll probably just laugh at any attempt I make. What I need to do is get the gun out of his hands, which would undoubtedly prove to be one of the most challenging things to do in my entire life. But maybe if I could manage to surprise him or even fight him off, then maybe I could get the gun and have the upper hand.

Allowing myself no more time to think about it, I shove hard at his chest, pushing with all my force and heaving myself off of the wall. He barely budges, so I resort to other tactics. I claw at the hand that's wound around my neck violently, attempting to break the skin with my nails. With my other arm, I grab the barrel of the gun and attempt to wrangle it out of his hands. I kick out with my left leg, kicking his thigh with my foot hard.

The Joker sighs and, using the hand that's wound around my neck, slams me back against the wall. As I cough and sputter from the pressure, he easily yanks the gun out of my grip and puts it in the pocket of his orange jumpsuit. I hit at his stomach and kick at him roughly, trying to give a good kick to the groin. He removes his fingers from around my neck and, while swiftly avoiding the blows, pins my arms against the wall, which brings him six inches closer than before.

"That's _enough_," he tells me, mimicking my tone from earlier. He then lets out a series of laughs, clearly unfazed by the entire ordeal. "Oh, Harley. Harley, Harley, _Harley. _You're a fighter, I like that_. _It makes _this_ so much more... fun." I'm tempted to ask him what "this" is, but I'm afraid of the answer. He releases his grip on my arms and takes a step back, trusting me not attempt that again. I'm tempted to lash out, but it won't do me any good, not when he can easily overpower me a second time.

"What was your question?" I ask breathlessly. If I couldn't get the gun out of his hands, then I had no choice but to play his little game.

"_Hmm_?"

"You said you had a question," I remind him.

"What was it?"

"I don't know, you said something about the show," I try to reply calmly. It's becoming increasingly harder and harder to keep my professional composure at this point, especially with him free to do whatever he wants. Not to mention the metallic smell of blood pungently seeps out of his cell and fills my nostrils with the smell of Dr. Brody's death. I'm tempted to let go of my professionalism completely, but it's the only thing I have left to hold onto at the moment.

"Oh, I remember." He lets out a bark of laughter and waves the gun towards me. "Do you still want to, uh, _help_ me, doc?"

"Of course I do," I assure him, pushing a blonde strand of disheveled hair away from my face. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Now you've seen the, uh, _freak _in the flesh. You've seen why they're afraid of me," he tells me, resting his hand against the wall beside my head. The gesture brings him even closer. "You, my dear, have gotten to see the death and destruction up close and _personal_."

"I've seen the news stories, Mr. J. I'm perfectly aware of why the DA and all of Gotham is afraid of you," I inform him. "I stand by the decision I made at Blackgate."

"Harley, Harley, _Harley_. There is no _helping_ me. You, on the other hand," I shudder as his hand grabs my chin and tilts it up, forcing me to look up at him, "have so much _potential_." His hand is warm to the touch, and the heat surprises me. I had expected him to feel cold and not so... human. He drops his hold on my chin, but the skin that rest there burns with phantom fingertips. It feels electrified almost.

"Potential for what?" I ask nervously.

He smiles and then chuckles lowly. "Oh, you'll see."

With those reassuring words, he plucks my ID from its haphazard placement on the bottom my skirt and turns back towards his cell. He scans my ID, yanks the pillow out from under Dr. Arkham's head, and places it between the door and the wall, propping it open. He then grabs the chair, which has somehow been unbolted from the floor of his cell, and drags it out into the hallway, placing it against the far wall. He climbs on top of it, rips the air vent grate off of the top of the wall, and then takes something out of the vent.

"What are you doing?" I question, confused by the random array of movements. He steps down from the chair, revealing a towel bundle concealing several items, most of which I can't make out from their lumpy shapes beneath the towel.

"_Me_?" he repeats, reentering his cell. He leisurely drops the bundle on the bed beside Dr. Arkham, humming to himself. The bundle falls open, revealing two rolls of gauze, medical tape, and rubbing alcohol. The sight of a disinfectant and something to cover up a wound with makes me even more nervous.

"Yes, _you_."

"No, no_, no_. This is about _you_, Harley." He raises the gun towards Dr. Arkham. "You've got to make a choice here. So, which is more important? Running over to those doctors and telling them my escape route." He nods towards the air vent. "Or saving Dr. Arkham's life?" There's out a loud _BANG_ as the gun goes off, followed by a hyena-like cackle of laughter.

"Tick tock, Harley," he calls, striding past me and climbing into the air vent. I stand there in pure shock for a moment, mouth agape. My boss had just been shot right in front of me. He had really been shot. Actually shot. And I'm the only one who can save him.

I regain control of my wits and sprint over to the Joker's cell, stepping over the pillow that's keeping the door open. I shoot a fleeting glance towards the air vent, but the Joker already appears to be long gone. I step over Brody's body, feeling bile rise up the back of my throat, and grab the rubbing alcohol out of the bundle. I yank Dr. Arkham's shirt up, looking for the source of the wound, and find it just below the right side of his chest.

"Stay with me Dr. Arkham," I call, pouring the alcohol over the wound. I rip off a large section of medical gauze, hastily fold it, and press it against the wound hard. I keep it in place with one hand and grab the medical tape with the other, messily tearing off four generous strips with my teeth. I tape the thick gauze down, but keep my hand on it, making sure that there's enough pressure. _Please don't die on me. Please don't die on me_.

"You're going to be just fine," I tell him, more for my own benefit than his unconscious one. There's an overwhelming urgency to the air, which makes my heart beat ten times faster. "You're going to be okay," I repeat, finding the gesture soothing. I keep my hands pressed on the wound, hoping that five minutes won't be too late.

* * *

At around midnight, Dr. Leland kindly drops me off at my apartment building. I would've gotten home sooner had the police not insisted we do an investigation minutes after Dr. Jeremiah Arkham was carted off to the emergency room. So, for several long hours, I sat in one of the interview rooms being questioned. I had found myself repeatedly having to explain that no, I didn't stop the Joker because I was too busy trying to keep my boss from bleeding out. I'm not sure why that was so hard for the police to comprehend, considering that Dr. Arkham managed to stay alive with a bullet in his chest without medical attention for five whole minutes.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I enter my apartment, heading straight over to the coffee maker. I turn it on and while waiting for it to brew, I make my way over to my apartment's tiny bathroom. I turn the shower on, wait for the water to warm up, then step in. I watch as Dr. Arkham's blood runs off of me and swirls down the drain, staining the water a dark red until eventually the remaining blood dilutes to a reddish pink. As soon as the pink tinge disappears from the water, I step out of the shower and enter my bedroom.

Now completely free of Dr. Arkham's blood, I toss on a pair of plaid pajama pants and a black tee-shirt, then make my way back into the kitchen. As much as I should want to sleep after a night like tonight, I know that I won't. There are too many thoughts running rampant through my mind for sleep. It would be nearly impossible to even doze off, so for now coffee would just have to substitute for rest.

I fill my coffee mug to the brim and take a deep sip, not bothering to add any sugar or milk. My desire for caffeine induced energy outweighs the bitter taste of black coffee. The hot liquid burns my tongue, but I'm far too wrapped up in my thoughts to react to the pain. I take a seat at the tiny table in the kitchen, absentmindedly and continuously taking sips of coffee.

These motions should have been soothing to me. A hot shower, a nice cup of coffee, and sitting in my own home should've been comforting, especially after a chaotic night like tonight. The normalcy of it all should've been inviting and looked forward to. Instead, I just feel... out of place, like I should be doing something more.

_The Joker had the chance to kill me or do whatever he wanted with me, so why didn't he_? I mentally wonder. He said that I had potential, but what did that even mean? That he saw something he could use in me? Was he saving me for some grand scheme? He'll undoubtedly get caught again, maybe he wants me at the asylum waiting for him. That is, if they sent him to the asylum again.

I sigh and trace my finger around the rim of my coffee mug, wondering the same question that has plagued me for three weeks. Why doesn't he treat me like the other doctors? What makes me so special? I doubt that it's just because I'm young and female. He saw something in me, but what? What potential could he possibly see in me?

Oh well, it didn't matter anymore. The Joker was gone, and in that absence I felt... empty. It's irrational, I know, but it feels like there's a hole in me. There would be no more therapy sessions, no more banter. There would be no more tedious diagnosing, no more staying up late in search of ways to treat him. There would be no more late nights consisting of me devouring every single page of his file, trying to understand him. He was gone, along with all of the time I usually spent obsessing over his case. It seems like there's nothing left to do now, nothing left to occupy my time with. I don't why it affects me so deeply, so irrationally, but I can't help but feel hollow.

I stand up and walk over to the hall closet, having a strange impulse to glance at something. I grab the Joker's portrait of me and take it into the living room. I prop it up against the wall, step back, and stare. Nothing about the painting itself has changed, but something about it feels different somehow. My eyes scour every inch of the portrait and I stare at the masked face for a long moment.

Is this what he saw in me?


	8. Tonight's Entertainment

_And as the blood runs down the walls_  
_You see me creeping up these halls_  
**My Chemical Romance, _House of Wolves_**

Everything went back to normal... and I hate it. It's ridiculous and irrational, but I'm appalled at how easily things swung back into their natural grove once again. It's as if everyone is trying to pretend that the Joker had never even been at Arkham. I've tried to talk to the other doctors about him a few times, trying to analyze his escape, but they just brush it off. I understand that people want to move on, forget about the two dead doctors and the mayhem that the Joker caused, but never speaking about it? It's as if they're denying it ever happened.

My annoyance is short-lived because I've tried my best to push it aside, trying wholeheartedly to forget about the Joker entirely. I stuffed his file away in the archives, documented and put away my notes, and tried to move on like everyone else. I filed my paperwork at eight am sharp every morning, attended my patient interviews, assessed disorders, and changed medicines. But no matter how hard I focus my attention on helping all of my patients, he always lingers in the back of my mind.

Sleep became well known to me again, and my horrendous Thursday bouts of insomnia have vanished. He creeps into my dreams every once and a while, waking me up in a cold sweat, but that was it. Life's routine regained its course and the Joker became a memory. A very sharp, vibrant memory.

"You hung _that_ up?" Selina demands on a mid-December evening. She'd stormed into my apartment minutes earlier, claiming that if she stayed in her apartment any longer that she would kill her obnoxiously loud neighbors. I follow her gaze to the painting hanging at the front of my living room. "Don't you find it creepy?"

"It's a nice painting," I reply with a shrug. The painting that the Joker made is nice, if you think about it. It's also kind of funny, considering that the very skillful artwork was painted by the hands of one of Gotham's greatest criminals.

"The Joker made that," she tells me slowly, as if I'm having a hard time comprehending. "The psychotic clown who shot your boss made that and you think it's _nice_?"

"Well, yeah," I reply honestly. "I didn't say that the artist is nice, I just said that the painting is."

"It depicts you with pigtails, a mask, and his creepy smile. Doesn't that bother you?"

"No, not really. If that's how he sees me, then that's how he sees me." Selina responds with a long, incredulous stare. "At least he was focusing on something other than toying around with people or slaughtering them," I point out. "At least he was making that instead of shooting people or slitting their throats with paperclips."

"Yeah, and what he was focused on was _you,_" she replies flatly. She shakes her head and then shoots me another look. "Fine, fine, it's your house, you can hang your weird patient obsessions up. I won't say another word."

I don't reply for a long moment, then out of the blue I ask, "Is robbing a bank fun?"

She peers at me strangely for a moment. "I guess so. I've never really robbed a bank, aside from a few tiny neighborhood ones. Banks aren't really my style. Why?"

"Just curious," I reply, not really sure why that particular conversation between the Joker and I floated through my mind. "Is it the rush that makes it fun?"

"Uh, I suppose so," she replies contemplatively. "Personally, for me the fun part is afterwards when you're sitting there with all of your cash or jewels, knowing that you've successfully outsmarted the cops and gotten away with all the goodies."

"Ah," I muse in response. The Joker had said that the rush was the fun part, but then again, the Joker and Catwoman are two _very_ different criminals. The Joker lives for the fun, he wouldn't do what he does otherwise. Catwoman, on the other hand, lives for proceeds. As we've discussed, she does enjoy it, but she isn't fueled entirely by the amusement of it.

Actually, from a psychiatrist's point of view, I have a feeling that she robs now mainly out of an addiction to it. It didn't start out that way, I'm sure she really had been doing it to get by at first, but now I think it has turned into a compulsion for her. She said that she could stop at any time, but I'm not so sure.

"You want to try it?"

"Try what?" I question.

"Robbing somewhere." I peer at her for a moment, making sure she's serious, which she appears to be.

"No, of course not," I brush off. I couldn't be robbing anywhere, I'm a respectable doctor. It's my job to keep people from doing stuff like that, not partake in it. "No, I was just wondering, that's all."

"Don't bullshit me, Harls. I know you want to," she tells me with a smirk.

"I do not," I defend diligently. "Getting caught doing something like that could ruin my career. I didn't slave four years of my life away in med school just to lose my license to practice over petty theft."

"Petty?" she repeats, sounding mock offended. "Stealing is an art! And I'm hurt that you think I'd allow you to get caught. You'd be running with the master and the master _never_ gets caught," she informs me with a wink. "Besides, even if we did get caught, which we won't, you wouldn't lose your medical license over robbing some little convenience store."

"You're an even worse influence than Pam," I tell her pointedly.

"You know, something about you has changed," she notes. "I don't know what, but I like it. Before, we could hardly bring up crime around you without you changing the subject. Now, you want to partake in it."

"I do _not_," I repeat, waving her off. "Nothing in me has changed."

"Yes it has. Trust me, Harls, Pam and I can tell. I think it's got something to do with that little," she points to the painting, "patient obsession with yours."

"Don't be ridiculous."

She holds up her hands in defeat. "Fine, nothing's changed. But if something had, I'm not sure whether I should be thanking the Joker or getting mad at you."

"Mad at _me_?" I repeat incredulously.

"Yeah, for letting him have a greater criminal influence on you than Pam and I combined."

"Oh hush," I retort, throwing a couch pillow at her. She catches it and twirls it in her hands, grinning ear to ear at me. "Nothing in me has changed. I'm the same person I was before I started treating the Joker."

I am the same person I was before I started treating the Joker, I'm almost sure of it. He might've changed my sleeping habits and how I spent my evenings, but he didn't change _me_. How could he have? He couldn't have done it psychologically, I would've noticed that kind of a change. There were a few minor changes in my mental health from trying to understand and see things from his perspective, but nothing life altering, nothing noticeable.

"Whatever you say, Harls." She stares at me for a moment, eyebrows furrowed in whatever she's intent on finding in my expression. "You're sure you don't want to help me rob the store?"

"I'm _sure_," I tell her firmly. "It's too risky for me. I can't risk my career like that. Besides, what kind of example would I be setting for my patients if I went out, robbed a store, and then chided them for robbing?"

"I didn't ask if you _should_ do it," she clarifies. "I asked if you _wanted_ to."

It's clear what choice is the right one, but what I want isn't so clear. I hadn't actually thought about if I _wanted_ to do it, I had just thought about which choice made the most sense. I didn't want to throw away my career or ruin any chance I have of making a respectable name for myself at the asylum, but I'm not so sure that I'm content with rotting behind paperwork all night.

"No, you go on ahead," I prod her, deciding that I ultimately shouldn't. "I've got a lot of work here I need to do. I've got to get these reports done and have them on Arkham's desk first thing in the morning. When he comes back from the hospital, I want him to see that everything's been taken care of."

"Harley," she says flatly. "Come on, live a little. Do you really want to waste away behind these files all night?"

"Well, no," I answer slowly. I didn't necessarily want to be doing paperwork all night, but it needs to get done regardless of what I want.

"Then come on, let's go have ourselves a great night!" she enthuses. "You aren't going to get caught, I promise. I've got everything we need back at my place."

I stare at the papers on my desk hesitantly. I could get up early and do the paperwork, but I doubt that I'll have enough time to finish it if I do it that way. I know how Dr. Arkham would react to late paperwork, but he's still in the hospital with a bullet wound and I don't know when he'll be back. And I don't know how his temporary replacements, Dr. Strange and Dr. Leland, will react to late papers. I'm sure they'll cut me some slack since it'll be my first offense, but the paperwork's really not that hard to do in the first place.

"We don't even have to rob somewhere. We can just go to the bar," she offers. "You need to get away from this hospital work. You spend way too much time there, it's going to be the death of you."

"No," I begin, but my thoughts just now begin clicking together in my mind. The Joker had been right about me being afraid of ending up alone with my job as the only thing to show for my life. I don't want to wake up one morning and find that I'm some boring, uptight, old doctor with nothing exciting to reminisce about. Yes, I realize that robbing a convenience store is an incredibly reckless and extreme kind of fun, but I'd only do it once. _Just once_, I promise myself.

"Let's go rob a convenience store, but no one gets hurt," I accept. "I don't want whatever we steal either, it'll make me too paranoid having it around the house."

"Deal."

I stand up, but then the doubt starts to settle in. It twists itself into a tight knot around my stomach and begins to squeeze. "Maybe I shouldn't do this," I begin to renounce.

"No, Harls, don't back out on me now. It'll be that fun rush you were asking about, I promise."

That fun rush, huh? I did _want_ to see what the Joker was talking about. The thought of what he described had kept me up wondering a few times. And maybe, if he came back to the asylum and I hinted subtly at my understanding of it, then maybe I could get him to open up to me more. Maybe I could get him to talk about some of his experiences. Besides those possibilities, I have a slight hunch that my subtle hints at experience might impress him as well. Not that I want to impress the Joker, but still, it could be helpful in therapy.

I feel slightly less conflicted once I convince myself that I'm doing this for work related reasons, despite the fact that it completely goes against what this entire thing is supposed to be about, which is what_ I_ want. Or maybe it doesn't go against that, considering I want the knowledge to use for my own benefit, even if it is a work related benefit. I want to do this, but I'm not sure if I'm wanting to do this for my own benefit.

Successful in confusing myself enough to give me a headache, I follow Selina out of my apartment and into her car. My thoughts grow no less rampant or demanding in the quietness of her car. In fact, they seem to be roaring even louder. Out of all of the contradictory thoughts that battle in my mind, the thing that worries me most is that these thoughts are about robbing. I'm trying to figure out why I'm about to commit a felony. A jail-worthy felony.

"I can't do this," I tell her. "I just can't, I'm sorry."

She looks at me worriedly, puts the car back into park, and shuts off the engine. "You don't have to if you don't want to, Harls. I'm sorry if I came off a little firm about it before, but you really don't have to do this."

"I'm doctor at an asylum for the criminally insane. I can't be setting those kinds of examples. I can't be chiding my patients on things I've done too," I explain. _What were you thinking, Harls. You could've just thrown your whole career away. You could've just become a big hypocrite and for what? You don't even know!_

"There goes that spark of change," Selina mutters.

"It's not just that either. I don't know if I would've been doing it for my benefit," I confide. "My thoughts are a little too jumbled up with people and possibilities and things that don't apply to my express benefit. My mind's really cloudy right now, I don't think I should be doing anything drastic while it's like this."

She puts a hand soothingly on my shoulder. "A word of advice, if you're going to do something you're unsure about, just make sure that you do it just for you. Do it for you, that way you don't have any regrets. Take it from me, I _know_."

"Thanks, Sel."

"Any time. You know cats are very wise animals, always watching, observing, and learning."

"I think you're mistaking them for owls," I reply with a smirk.

"Not a chance. Well, since we aren't going to rob anyone or anything, let's go to the bar," she suggests. "Actually, let's go to the Iceberg Lounge. Do you think Cobblepot will let us back there without Pam?"

"I don't know, maybe," I reply honestly. "It's only six o'clock, everyone's going to think that we're alcoholics. Even the Joker got that impression."

"We're simply avoiding work, which is exactly what you need to be doing. Another word of advice, it's _never_ too early to avoid work."

* * *

About a month has passed since the Joker left and it's now Christmas Eve. His presence grows dimmer and dimmer at Arkham as my mind finally slips back into its old habits. There is one word that sums up my life nicely at this point: _boring_. My life revolves around paperwork and patients again. I've pushed those ideas of robbery out of my head and settled my attention on what I do best, which is my job.

As of right now, my job requires me to be at Arkham Asylum's annual Christmas party, which is being held on the elite floor of some fancy hotel and is undoubtedly being paid for by our benefactors. Tonight will consist of small talk, business, and lots of drinking. Even Dr. Jeremiah Arkham is here trying to make deals with the old and new potential benefactors, when really he should still be resting.

I grab a glass of champagne off of a passing waiter's tray and take a sip, watching the crowd of people. Everyone sort of blends together between the long dresses and the tuxedos. They all appear to be wearing something designer or boasting about diamond encrusted watches and whatnot, whereas I'm simply wearing my dress from last year, not that I'm complaining. It's a very pretty one shoulder dress, consisting of dark red chiffon and a satin black bow tied around the waist. I don't mind wearing it again and I doubt that anyone here will even remotely remember it.

"You look entertained," a voice from beside me observes. I turn my head to see Bruce Wayne, Arkham's biggest benefactor, standing beside me. "Hey, don't I know you from somewhere?"

"No, I don't think so," I reply politely.

"I'm Bruce," he tells me pleasantly, sticking out his hand. "Bruce Wayne." I shift my champagne to my other hand and shake his hand politely. _Here comes the small talk_.

"Harleen," I introduce. "Dr. Harleen Quinzel. I'm one of the resident psychiatrist's over at Arkham."

"That's where I know you from," he muses. "You saved Dr. Arkham's life."

"I'm glad someone remembers it that way," I mutter bitterly. Louder and clearer I add, "I was just doing my job."

"Aren't you the doctor who treated the Joker?" he questions curiously. I take a deep sip of champagne, downing half the glass.

"Mm-hmm."

"Do you think he's really, you know?"

"Crazy?" I finish for him. He nods. "I think that he's in need of psychiatric help, yes. Other than that, I can't really disclose anything else about the case to you for patient confidentiality reasons." Typically I would've leapt at the chance to talk about the Joker, but not with Bruce Wayne. People like Bruce don't even want to begin to understand what goes on inside a criminal's mind, they just want them off the streets. I don't blame them, but I have a certain annoyance towards people who just assumed why people do the things they do. Then again, I'm assuming that Bruce Wayne thinks like that, aren't I?

"Right, right, sorry." He takes a sip of his drink, then asks, "So, how do you like working at Arkham? I bet it keeps you busy."

"It really does, but I don't mind." The work kept me focused, preoccupied. It kept my thoughts firmly rooted instead of going astray. "It can get a little chaotic at times, but I like it there. How's Wayne Enterprises doing?" I ask conversationally. I don't know much about the Wayne family business, only that it's incredibly profitable and generous to charities. I know that the company has various branches, the most famous one being technology, but other than that I'm clueless about Wayne Enterprises.

"Good, good. Our environmental science division has some prospects that are starting to look very promising and the technologies division is making a small expansion that I'm excited about, but other than that everything's pretty much the same." He takes another sip of his drink. "So, tell me, Dr. Quinzel, what do you think Arkham needs to make it a better place for rehabilitation?"

"You can call me Harley, everyone does." _Even the patients do_, I think to myself. "You'll have to ask Dr. Arkham, he knows all there is to know about what we're lacking in terms of numbers and such. I'm sure he's around here somewhere," I muse, eyeing the crowd.

"I'll talk to him later, but I want to know what you think the hospital needs from a staff's perspective."

"Um, well we never seem to have enough straitjackets," I offer. "Actually, we seem to be having a shortage of lots of things these days. To be honest, I think having the Joker at Arkham scared away some of the benefactors." It wouldn't surprise me if that thought was actually true. Why would anyone want to invest their money in a hospital where the patients slaughtered the staff? The more doctors that die, the higher they've got to pay the ones who are still alive to keep working. Half of our paycheck is for the risk and the other half is for the actual work.

"That's a shame," Bruce announces. "I would think having the Joker there would bring in more money."

"Why's that?" I question curiously.

"Well, he's a special patient. I figured that people would pay more to keep him in there than off of the streets," he tells me with a shrug.

"I wish that was the case," I mutter. "Everyone wants to lock him, and all of the extremely dangerous criminals for that matter, away in a four inch thick steel cells. They want them to remain in the sublevels of Blackgate, completely isolated and away from everyone and everything all together, regardless of if they need mental help or not."

"The other benefactors don't think that Arkham's doctors can reform them?"

"I don't know, some of them might. A fair share of Gotham doesn't even _think_ that they need reforming. They just think that they're evil."

"But you don't?"

"Of course not. It's my job to try and help them," I reply. "Besides, no one is born evil and no one is ever _purely_ evil. There is no distinct line between good and bad. Somewhere, somehow these criminals were made into what they are now. That's the root of it all. If the doctors can find that root and touch down on it, then yeah, I think that they can be reformed."

"Well if you think they can, then so do I. If you happen to see Dr. Arkham around, tell him I'll be waiting for him with a check. Nice talking to you, Harley."

"You too, Mr. Wayne."

"Please, call me Bruce." He gives me a bright smile, then disappears into the crowd of people. I stand there for a moment, stunned. Did I really just close a business deal with Bruce Wayne?

I shake those thoughts aside and take a sip of my drink, watching the crowd. Some people are dancing to the slow, classical tune and others are talking and drinking. The bar is relatively crowded, mainly by the potential benefactors. The seats placed sporadically around the room are mainly occupied by groups of gossiping girls. I don't recognize any of them, so I assume that they're all of the benefactor's dates. Among the faces that I don't recognize, which is a lot, I manage to find a few familiar ones.

I spot Dr. Leland talking to Amy, Dr. Arkham's wife. I'm tempted to go over there instead of standing alone in the corner, but something tells me that Amy's going to be entirely too thankful towards me. Ultimately, I have the choice of standing alone or fake smiling my way through a conversation with my boss's wife. I remain in my corner and down the rest of my champagne.

Somewhere near the elevator entrance to the ballroom, people begin to gasp. The sharp, loud sound of bullets being fired fills the room as several bullets hit the ceiling. Several people shriek and scream, filling the room with the sound of panic. Several chunks of ceiling fall from where the bullets hit and the sharp sound of shattering glass hits my ears as champagne glasses fall from the hands of shocked party goers. I peer over the crowd of people, trying to get a glimpse of the gunman.

"Good evening ladies and gentle_men_," a voice calls. My heart skips a beat, then resumes a faster pace. I know that voice, I'd know it anywhere. "We are tonight's _entertainment_!"


	9. Time's Up

_Fire your guns_  
_It's time to run_  
**Breaking Benjamin, _Blow Me Away_**

As much as I want to watch the Joker enact whatever he's got up his sleeve, my logic forces me to slowly creep into the hallway behind me while the rest of the crowd remains in shock. I open the doors to the hallway just enough so that I can slip through them and then make my way into the stairwell, shutting the door quietly behind me. As I hurriedly begin my descent down the stairs, I pull my cell phone out of my purse and instead of calling the police (since I'm sure they'll be here soon enough), I call Selina.

"Hey, Harls," she greets on the fourth ring. I can hear the faint sound of a TV in the background, as well as a microwave going nearby. Huh, she must not be up to any mischief tonight. That is, unless she isn't in her own apartment using her own microwave. "Is the party really bad enough for you to call me within the first hour?"

"The Joker's here," I tell her, stopping in front of the door leading into the ninth floor. I yank at the handle hard, but it's locked. Even though it's fruitless, I rattle and pull at the handle a few more desperate times. Swearing under my breath, I abandon my efforts and begin going down the next flight of stairs.

"What do you mean the Joker's there?" she demands, her voice going up a pitch higher.

"He just burst into the party and shot a round of bullets at the ceiling." I stop on the eighth floor landing and pull hard at the door handle. This one doesn't budge, which probably means that none of the other doors will either. _Of course, because hiding out would be too easy_, I think to myself bitterly. Despite the odds that are weighing against the next door being unlocked, I begin hurriedly descending to the seventh floor.

"Are you okay?"

"No, I was just calling to tell you that I've been shot," I reply sarcastically, tugging at the seventh floor entrance door to no avail. I rest my hand on the door and take in a deep, slightly panicked breath.

"That's not _funny_," she tells me pointedly. "Where are you?"

"I'm in the stairwell, trying to hide out on one of the other floors, but all of the damn doors are locked."

"Aren't you in a hotel?" she questions.

"Yeah, why?"

"Shouldn't the stairwell be open to all of the guests?"

"They're renovating," I reply. I'd seen it on a sign at the front desk. The sign had said something about improving the hotel guests quality of living with advanced heating insulation or something like that. "Only the ballrooms are open for business."

"Hmm, let me think." She pauses for a short moment. "Is there an air vent that you can fit through?"

I glance around me, spotting one about forty feet above my head. There isn't a ladder around and I doubt, even with my gymnastic skills, that I can scale the walls up to the vent. "No, there isn't."

"Is there an emergency exit door at the base of the stairwell?" I glance downwards, only to see six more sets of stairs. _If only we weren't in a ten story building_, I think to myself wistfully, beginning to run down the next flight of stairs. "Harley?"

"I'm still here," I reply breathlessly, tugging on the sixth floor door. Again, this one doesn't budge. "Just give me a minute," I tell her, entering the flight of stairs leading down to the fifth floor. I stop on the fifth floor landing and try the door, which also proves to be locked. I let out a frustrated huff and lean against the locked door, taking a moment just to breathe, shutting my eyes as I do so.

"There she is!" I open my eyes to find two men in clown masks rushing towards me. "Don't move or I'll shoot!" The taller of the two henchmen raises his machine gun towards me warningly.

"What was that?" Selina questions worriedly.

"That was my chance of escaping going down the drain," I mutter solemnly. "I'm going to have to call you back." She attempts to protest, but I quickly end the call and stuff my phone back into the small purse that I brought with me. "How can I help you gentlemen?" I question pleasantly, trying the nice approach.

"Are you Harley? The boss said you'd be blonde and real pretty. He said you'd be smart too, trying to get away and stuff." It's flattering that the Joker thinks that I'm smart and pretty, very flattering, but why is he sending his goons after me?

"If you lower your weapon, then I'll tell you anything you want to know, okay?" I suggest. "This doesn't have to end badly for anyone, including yourselves. We can all-"

"That's definitely her," the shorter one announces. "She's all calm and talking like a shrink."

"You sure? Boss will kill us if we're wrong."

"Yes, I'm sure," the shorter one snaps. "Come on, lady, let's go. Up the stairs."

"Now why would I do that?" I quip. "You haven't told me anything except that your "boss" sent you to come get me, but for what reason?" I keep my tone strong and calm, challenging them. I'm not afraid of these two mindless goons. What I am afraid of is what might happen after they've delivered me to wherever the Joker wants me to be. Who knows what the Joker has in store for tonight, or what role I might play in it for that matter.

"Look, lady, I've got a gun," he tells me, waving the the metal weapon around threateningly. "You're going to do whatever I say or-"

"Or you'll shoot me?" I finish for him, crossing my arms. "See, I don't think you can do that. I don't think your boss would be too happy if you brought him my corpse."

"He doesn't care what we do with you, as long as we get you there alive. We could shoot you in the leg and he wouldn't even care."

"If you shot me in the leg, I wouldn't be able to walk," I inform him slowly, allowing what I'm saying to sink in. "Do you really want to _carry_ me up five flights of stairs?"

"We could just shoot you in the arm," the second clown adds.

"Ah, I don't think that's a good idea. I could easily bleed out from my arm," I half lie. I _could_ bleed out, depending on the time it took me to get to a hospital or if they managed to hit an artery. Although, I sincerely doubt that either of them even know that there actually are arteries in the arm, let alone know where they are.

"You're bluffing," he argues.

"Fine, shoot me in the arm," I challenge, silently hoping that he won't actually do it. "See if the person who went to medical school is right." The two clowns turn towards each other, silently trying to decide whether or not I'm bluffing.

The sound of heavy footsteps reaches my ears and it momentarily distracts the two clowns from their silent debate. A few moments later, a third clown appears. He stops about two stories down, aims his gun, and sends a ricochet of bullets over our heads. I duck down instinctively, whereas the first two clowns begin to argue with the third.

"What the fuck was that for, man?" the shorter one whines. "You almost shot me."

"Why the fuck are you sitting around talking to the girl," the third clown shoots back. "Shouldn't she be up on the roof by now?" The roof, what was happening on the roof? Several horribly tragic scenarios run through my mind, each one resulting in either my death, severe injury, or a horrible effect on my mental health. Nothing pleasant can come from being taken to the roof.

"We were getting to it," the taller one snaps. "We just found her. Come on, let's go," he tells me, yanking me up hard by my upper arm. I follow the clowns reluctantly up the stairwell, keeping my eyes peeled for any means of escape. I would've tried to run, had there not been three of them. I might have been able to outrun one, maybe even two, but the three of them together would more than likely end up with them tackling or restraining me somehow.

The guns hadn't really worried me before the third clown showed up. Something told me that he wasn't playing around and that he wouldn't easily be fooled by medical lies and bluffs. I don't doubt that this one will shoot me in the leg either. He'd probably make me walk on it anyway, or at least that was the impression I'd gotten from him so far.

We follow the stairs all the way up to the roof, where one of the clowns produces a key to unlock the door. The third clown shoves the door open and a sharp gust of wind cuts though me. I shiver, stepping out onto the snow covered roof. I cross my arms tightly as the cold December air bites at my exposed arms and cheeks.

They lead me over to the middle of the roof, where a single chair rests. "Sit," the third clown snaps. I brush the thin layer of snow that's settled over the seat off and sit down calmly, thinking out my options. So far, I'm coming up blank.

"What now?" I ask. The third clown swings the end of his gun back and then hits me hard across the face in response. The butt of the gun catches me across cheek, making my eyes tear up in pain. I can feel my cheek redden and turn feverish against the icy weather. I touch it briefly, wincing in pain as my fingers come in contact with the puffy, tender skin.

I know that it doesn't help the situation and I know that it's not _smart_, but I can't help myself. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I snap at him.

"What did you just say to me?" he demands, raising the gun. "What did you just say to _me_?"

"Whoa, hey buddy, put the gun down," the shorter goon requests. "Boss said we couldn't kill her."

"He didn't say we couldn't mess her up a bit, though." He aims the gun at my thigh and I shut my eyes tightly. _Dammit, Harley, why did you have to go and open your mouth_? There are several loud _BANG'_s and I brace myself for the pain, but it never comes.

I open my eyes slowly, relaxing my tense position. I glance down at my legs to see that they're unscathed beneath my dress. In front of my legs, however, is a gruesome sight. The third clown lies dead in front of me with bullet holes all over his chest. The blood from the wounds pools around him, tainting the white snow red. Even though the man had just tried to shoot me, the sight of his dead body sickens me.

"That, Harley," a familiar voice quips, "was a _bad_ man. You don't want to know the kind of things he's done for money." The Joker steps into view and I'm oddly welcomed by the sight of him. I'm terrified out of my mind of course, but deep down something irrational in me is glad to see him, glad to see that he's okay. It's odd and I know that I shouldn't, but I feel safer with him here than I do with the goons alone.

"Mr. J," I greet. "How are you doing?"

He lets out a low chuckle. "How am_ I_ doing, Harley? In case you haven't noticed," he gestures to the snow covered roof around us, "we aren't exactly in a, uh, therapy session."

"I can see that."

"Ah, then you're trying to talk me down," he realizes. "Uh, good luck with _that_. Hold on, I've got something for you." He pats his chest pocket, then scrounges around in his bottom coat pockets. "I know they're in here somewhere," he mutters. His purple gloved hands move onto his inside coat pockets, where he retrieves three little black boxes.

"Ah, here we are." He turns them over to reveal that each one has a different colored button on the top. I've seen enough movies and heard enough from the news to know that he's got three detonators resting in his hands. There's no telling what each one of them blows up.

"It's always been a, uh,_ tradition_ in my family to open a gift on Christmas Eve," he tells me with a short chuckle. Part of me doubts that he's being serious, but another part of me wants to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Pick one," he requests, holding them out to me.

"You're joking?"

"_Me_?" he questions with a mock gasp. "Never." He bursts into an array of laughter, clutching his side with one arm. He gasps, coming up for air, and then lets out a smaller laugh. "No, _really_. Pick one."

"I'm not going to pick a detonator." I was most certainly _not_ going to responsible for the death of anyone inside wherever the Joker had rigged explosives.

"I'm kind of on a tight schedule here, Harley."

"I'm _not_ going to pick one," I repeat firmly.

The Joker sighs. "_Fine_." He stashes two of the detonators in his pocket, leaving out the red one. He slams his hand down on the button and there's a moments delay before, _BOOM_. I cringe, ducking down and covering my head as the building beneath us shakes and the sound of falling glass and crumbling walls fill my ears. The Joker laughs manically and claps his hands in amusement, gleefully delighted at the sight of the burning building in front of us.

"What did you just blow up?" I demand worriedly, rising up from my huddled position. I watch as the building in front of us crumbles to the ground, smashing a few parked cars on the way down. I detect a faint hue of orange inside of the crumbling building as the flames inside of it begin to expand.

"Uh, I think it was a bank," he replies leisurely. The door to the roof opens loudly and three men in clown masks walk towards us. "Glad you could make it, boys. Watch her, and make sure she doesn't try to escape." His voice drops to a low whisper, the tone just loud enough so that I can hear their conversation. "I'd watch out if I were you, that one's a _fighter,_" he tells the goons with an amused grin.

The Joker lets out a short cackle and walks back over to the door. "Wait, where are you going?" I call. _Please don't leave me alone with these goons_, I think to myself. I don't particularly want to be alone with the Joker either, but who knows what these men might do. They all must be a little crazy, or at least have some sort of mental problem, to be working for the Joker. Just look at the dead henchman's anger problems.

"I've got a party to get back to," he tells me with a laugh, then turns back to his henchmen. "Oh, I almost forgot. If you see the Batman or if I don't make it back up here in, uh, fifteen minutes... throw her off the roof."

"_What_?" I question shrilly, terror seeping into my tone. I watch as the Joker, without another word, disappears through the door into the stairwell. He wasn't serious. He _couldn't_ be serious. They weren't really going to throw me off of the roof, right? _Right_?

* * *

Time passes fast, despite the lack of motion up on the frigid rooftop. The henchmen walk around the roof and patrol the area, but they don't speak much, aside from announcing time intervals. The wind refuses to let up any, soon making me shiver and my teeth chatter. With each passing minute, the possibility of me being splattered against the side walk ten stories down grows more and more eminent. My thoughts continue to grow even more frantic as I desperately try to think of a solution.

"Ten minutes," the fourth guard announces. _What do I do? What do I do?_ I think frantically, knowing that I might only have ten minutes left to live. I can't exactly fight off five grown men, let alone five grown men with guns, and I can't count on the Joker to make it back in time, considering Batman might keep him preoccupied for a while. So, what _can_ I do? I eye the door to the stairwell desperately. Could I make a run for it and lock them out? I don't even know if that door can lock from the inside. It seems risky, but it's my only shot.

At that moment, the door to the stairwell opens just enough for someone in a very familiar black body suit to slip through. I'm half convinced that I'm hallucinating from the cold as Selina, dressed in her black Catwoman suit complete with the ears, goggles, and a black bag slung over her shoulder, crouches down and runs behind the outer wall of the small room encasing the stairwell. I quickly glance at each of the goons, realizing that I can only see four of them, which means that the fourth one is... uh-oh.

There's a small sound, similar to a gasp, and then all goes quiet. "Did you hear that?" the third clown asks sharply.

"Hear what?" I ask innocently, keeping my eyes averted from the stairwell.

"It came from behind the stairwell," he informs them. "Hey Mark! You alright back there?" There's a long moment of silence. "Mark, that isn't funny man, come on. Mark!"

"Mark's taking a catnap," Selina tells them in a sultry voice, slinking out from behind the small room. The henchmen stand there for a stunned moment, eyeing my friend in surprise.

"You're," the first clown begins.

"Catwoman?" she finishes for him. "Harley here is an old friend of mine, would you gentlemen be so kind as to let her go?" she inquires sweetly. "I _prrrromise_ we'll be gone in flash," she vows, rolling the r.

"Sorry, kitten," the fourth clown announces, stepping towards her. "I'm afraid that's not possible."

"Why's that?" she purrs.

"The boss wants her here, so our job's to keep her from leaving," he retorts. "So, if I were you, I'd leave before things get too messy. I'd hate to get blood all over that nice outfit of yours."

"You think so?" she muses.

"Mm, it's in your best interest."

"Thanks for the advice," she roundhouse kicks him, catching him squarely across the jaw, "_kitten_." He lunges for her throat, but she quickly ducks and manages to kick him in the groin. He hunches over and she slides behind him, digging the boot of her heel straight into the small of his back. He pitches forward and on the way to the ground, he smacks his head against the wall of the roof and falls limply to the floor. She shoves his machine gun away from him and slides across the snow covered roof, narrowly dodging several bullets from the other henchmen.

I slide my heels off and leap out of my chair, tripping the clown closest to me. He falls to the ground and I kick him hard in the ribs. While he's down, I sprint towards the unconscious clown's gun. As my fingers lock around the cold metal, something heavy crashes against me. I lose my grip on the gun as I collide with the wall of the roof.

The clown who tackled me grabs me by the hair and yanks me up into a standing position. He punches me in the face, his fist connecting painfully with the front of my nose. There's a snapping sound as I hear it break and as of right now, I'm getting pretty tired of having my nose broken by criminals. I bring my leg up high and snap out, turning as I do so. The motion catches him across the side of the face, sending him reeling towards the ground. He hits the roof hard, his head taking most of the impact. I watch him for a long moment, but he doesn't get up.

I pick up the machine gun from his unconscious body and frantically look around for Selina. My heart drops when I don't see her or the two remaining henchmen. _Please don't be dead, please don't be dead_.

My spirits lighten as I spot her somersaulting away from the stairwell, a stream of bullets following close behind. "Fight me like a real man," she challenges the clown in pursuit of her. "Put down the gun and use your fists. Unless you're scared," she taunts.

He drops the gun and the two begin to wrangle, Selina lithe and graceful, the clown messy and brutal. I draw my eyes away from the two of them and scour the roof for the final gunman. Unless he's behind the building, the only other place he could be is in the stairwell. _This is a bad idea_, I think to myself as I creep over to the side of the small room.

I shouldn't look. I _really _shouldn't look. As soon as I do, I'm probably going to get my head blown off. I don't want _that_. I don't want to die. Why did I have to go to this party? Why tonight?

I turn my head to look around the corner, mentally swearing like a sailor. I quickly glance behind the building, but there's no one there, aside from the first clown's unconscious body. I breathe in a sigh of relief, realizing that the bastard fled the scene.

I step away from the side of the small building and make my way over to the center of the roof. I watch as Selina successfully takes down the clown, one foot placed on his chest triumphantly. Behind her, against the opposite side of the building that I was on, something moves. I squint my eyes, trying to see what's moving and what I see makes my heart drop.

Without thinking, my finger latches onto the trigger and bullets fly. The gun in my hands kicks back hard, hitting me in the stomach, and the sound of firing bullets makes my ears ring. I watch with shaking hands as the clown behind Selina gets hit with bullets multiple times, blood splattering everywhere. He falls to the ground at the same moment that I drop the machine gun.

I killed him. I shot him down. I took his life.

Selina turns around to look at the sight behind her and covers her mouth in shock. "You... you saved me," she announces warily. "He almost killed me and I wouldn't have even," she covers her mouth again, unable to finish the sentence.

I stand there for a moment, completely still. I should've felt horror and remorse and disgust. It was self-defense, I couldn't have just let Selina die, but I _killed_ a man. I killed him, shot him dead. There should've at least been a spark of something, an emotion of some kind, but I'm not horrified or disgusted with myself. I don't regret what I just did. I don't have an overwhelming urge to cry in relief or scream in frustration at the events that had just occurred.

Instead, I feel nothing. Nothing at all. I'm relieved that Selina is still alive, but beyond that I just feel numb.

She turns back towards me and gasps. "Harley, look out!" Two arms lace around my waist and hoist me into the air before I can even turn my head to look. I kick and lash out at my attacker, but he doesn't budge.

"Time's up," the voice of the fourth, previously unconscious, henchman tells me. He throws me forward, off of the roof of the building. An earsplitting scream erupts out of me as I desperately grab at anything to latch onto, but there's nothing. The only thing that my hands manage to grab at is empty air. There is nothing to stop the fall, nothing to break it. It's just me, the ground, and one hundred feet of empty air.

I look down to see the building whizzing past me and the ground hurtling towards me. A heavy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach as I realize that this is it, this is the end. I'm going to die.


	10. Up In the Air

_I've been up in the air_  
_Is this the end I feel?_  
**30 Seconds To Mars, _Up In the Air_**

I don't want to die. I'm not ready to. It's too early, I haven't done enough in life yet. I spent most of my twenty eight years in school, not out having fun. I'd worked hard, always trying to get A's, always trying to be on top in high school. I had rushed through college, spending long hours on term papers and studying for finals. Medical school had taken up nearly any spare ounce of free time I had afterwards and for four more years I devoted my life to studying.

I haven't lived, all I've done is work. That, I realize while hurtling towards the ground, is what the Joker has been trying to tell me all along.

Something thick snaps around my waist, jolting me hard. The earth stops rising up to meet me and I start to sway. I touch my waist to feel some sort of cord wrapped tightly around me. It squeezes hard up against my ribs, but it's the only thing keeping gravity from finishing its work.

"Harley!" Selina screams, barely loud enough for me to hear. I glance up to see the vague outline of her head peering over the roof. In front of her is the starting point of the cord that's wrapped around me. "Are you OK?"

"No!" I shout back, clutching the cord for dear life. I'm dangling from a ten story building, about to splatter across the sidewalk, I am _far_ from alright.

A wave of lightheadedness washes over me as I look at the ground. It's so far away, the impact would break every bone in my body if I hit the ground from where I am now. The impact would crush my skull, impaling my brain with bone fragments. If my crushed skull didn't kill me, then the impact overall would probably stop my heart and finish the job. I take a deep breath, shuddering as I do so. My heart races in my chest like a jackhammer, the sound flooding my ears. _It's so far away. It's so far away. It's so far away_.

I can't breathe. I _cannot_ breathe.

"Harley!" Selina's voice calls, breaking through the panic. "Stay with me!"

Even Selina's words can't stop the overwhelming sense of doom. My breathing comes in ragged, short puffs, each one adding to the lightheadedness. I let out an unintentional choked sob and desperately clutch the cord around me_. I'm going to die. I'm going to die_.

"It's going to be OK!" she shouts at me from the rooftop. "I'm not going to let you fall!"

There's a loud _BOOM_ and flames burst out of several windows three floors below me. The glass falls and shatters to the ground below and the burst of fiery flames dies down as it meets the frigid December air. The building shakes and there's a loud crash on the inside. I yelp loudly as I start to fall again, only to be jolted hard two feet down.

I'm almost certain that my heart just stopped.

"Sorry, sorry!" Selina frantically calls. "The rope slipped, do you..." her voice gets carried off by a sharp gust of wind.

"What?" I shout, my voice sounding more like a shrill squeak. My chest feels so constricted and hollow that I'm surprised any sound came out of me at all.

"Can you swing?" she repeats even louder, her voice barely reaching my ears.

"Swing?"

"I can't lift you back up, the rope's too heavy," she explains in a shout. "Can you swing into one of the windows?"

_The windows_? I turn to glance at the building beside me. I'm even with the glass windows, but how on earth am I going to swing through them? My mind fills with the thoughts of several horrible outcomes. _The cord could snap from the movement. You could successfully break the window and a shard of glass could cut the cord. If the windows are too hard to break and you crash into them, you could hit your head and pass out. _

The onslaught of horrible possibilities is broken by Selina's voice. "Harley, did you hear me?"

"Yeah," I call back with uncertainty. _Harley, you've got to do this. You don't have another option_, I tell myself firmly. _You're not going to fall and the cord's not going to snap. You're going to be fine_. _Just don't look down_.

I move my arms and legs to the right, then to the left, not moving much. _It's not going to snap_, I tell myself as I continue the swaying motion. It feels like a lifetime before the cord starts moving an inch or so in each direction. _It's not going to snap. It's not going to snap_, I repeatedly assure myself, finally beginning to gain momentum.

"You're almost there, Harls!" Selina calls encouragingly. "Just a few more swings."

I reach towards the glass window, my fingers barely brushing it as I swing back the other way. _You can do this, Harley, you're almost there_. I swing my legs hard to the right and three of my fingers touch the window this time around. I push off the wall as hard as I can with those three fingers and bring my body weight towards the left, propelling my sideways swing.

I come back closer this time, close enough to prop my feet against the window and push off. I come back around one more time, not quite having the right power yet. I shove off of the window and snap my legs back quickly, fueling the speed and force I'd need to break through the window. Well, _hopefully _break through the window.

I hurl myself at the window legs first and crash into it. I squeeze my eyes shut as the sound of shattering glass fills my ears. I feel the cord loosen behind me as I crash through the window. _Please make it, please make it._

I hit the floor so hard that it knocks the breath out of me. For a moment, I lay there wheezing, desperately trying to take in air. The feeling subsides and I push myself onto my knees, shards of glass pricking and poking at me along the way. I breathe in a sigh of relief, hardly even noticing the pain from the glass shards.

I'm not sure how long I sit there shivering for. I can't tell if the shakes and shudders are from shock, relief, or coldness. Probably all three. Time doesn't seem to pass at all, not to me anyway. It's like the world is holding its breath and all is still. Everything is very, very still. It all seems like a bad dream, a _very_ bad dream.

One thought floats through my mind in the midst of stillness: I am _alive_.

The stairwell door to the room bursts open and Selina's worried voice fills my ears. "Harley!" she exclaims, rushing over to my non-moving spot in front of the window. "Are you okay? You've got glass all over you. Did any of the shards catch you? I can't tell. It's too dark in here."

"I don't know," I respond warily, my voice hoarse. "I feel numb."

"It's the cold," she informs me. "Damn, I wish there was a blanket or something up here. Hold on a second, let me find a light switch." She fumbles along the walls of the room for a few moments. "There we go," she announces triumphantly as a harsh light fills the room. Judging by the large space, unfinished walls, and lack of furniture, the light reveals us to be in some sort of master suite under construction.

Selina rushes back over to me and hastily unties the cord from around my waist. She reels in the rest of the cord, which she had apparently dropped after my landing, from the side of the building. She wraps it in a neat circle and slides it back into the black bag that she brought. From that bag, she produces a small red purse and a pair of black velvet platforms heels.

"These were lying around on the roof," she tells me. "I figured I'd get them back to their owner."

"Thanks," I mumble. Selina peers at my face for a moment, her face scrunched up in some kind of concern. She reaches forward and abruptly tugs at my face, tearing something out of it that I hadn't even noticed was lodged in there. She drops a reasonably large bloody piece of glass on the floor and I touch my cheek in surprise. When I take my fingers away from my face, they're stained red with blood.

"Hold on, you've got a few little ones." She plucks at my face twice, pulling out two smaller shards. "Do you have any on your arms?" I glance from side to side at my arms, but they seem to have avoided the glass. I lift my hands up to look at them and unlike my arms, my hands seem to be in bad shape. Selina frowns and takes my right hand first, picking out the multiple glass pieces.

"What happened to the last clown?" I ask curiously.

"Right after he threw you off the roof, he ran down the stairwell and probably locked himself away on one of the other floors. You'd think he wouldn't be such a coward, considering he threw you off the roof and all," she tells me with a snort as she pulls the last piece of glass out of my right hand. "Doesn't that hurt?" she questions with a grimace, moving onto my left hand. There's a faint pinch with each pull of glass, but it doesn't even hurt as bad as a needle prick.

"I can't really feel much right now, to be honest." Those little cuts and scratches would hurt like hell in the morning, I'm sure, but right now a mixture of shock and coldness blocks the pain out. My overwhelming relief has been hijacked by some sort of shock induced cold indifference, leaving me almost as numb on the inside as I am on the outside.

"Hey, Harls," she begins warily, eyeing my leg, "that looks like it really hurts." I glance down to see a rather large chunk of glass sticking through my dress and into my thigh. I touch the cold material gently, then pull upwards, yanking it out of my flesh. I let it clatter to the floor, faintly watching a splotch of dark red seep onto my dress in its place.

There's surprisingly barely any glass lodged in my feet, so I pluck out what is left and put my platforms back on protectively. I don't exactly feel like walking in heels at the moment, considering I'd more than likely be wobbly and unsteady on my feet. However, it's better than the alternative of walking on glass.

"Do you need some help getting up?" Selina questions, jumping to her feet. I quickly shake her off and rise unsteadily to my feet. "You don't look so good, Harls."

"I don't feel so good," I reply, taking a deep breath to help ward off the wooziness. "I want to go home."

"Don't you think you should talk to the cops first? They're going to want to call you in for questioning. I can slip out the back entrance if-"

I shake my head firmly. "Not tonight. I can't... I can't deal with them, not tonight. They can find me in the morning."

"I'll take you home, is your car in the parking garage?"

"Yeah, I think it's on the second sublevel beneath the hotel," I tell her, faintly remembering where I'd parked. It seems so long ago. "Where's your motorcycle?"

"I took a cab here." I look at her suspiciously and she sighs. "No, I did not take a cab here dressed like this. I'm not _that_ crazy. I changed in the bathroom of some frozen yogurt shop near here and then slipped out of the bathroom window," she explains, leading me slowly over to the exit stairs. "Will the stairwell take us down to the garage subfloor?"

"I think so. I took the elevator up to the lobby, but there are probably stairs."

"Good, let's go. Be careful on the stairs," she warns as we begin to descend. It seems like forever until we reach the sublevel first floor. I sit down tiredly on the last step and place my head in my hands, a throbbing migraine beginning to break through the numbness.

"Stay here," Selina instructs me. "I'll go get the car and bring it around. We'll deal with the actual part of getting out of here when the time comes. Where are your keys?"

"I'm fine, _really_. I can help you find the car," I assure her, handing her my purse. "The keys are somewhere in there."

"You are _not_ fine," she tells me pointedly. "Stay here and just take a breather, okay? I'll be right back." She disappears down the ramp leading into the second sublevel, leaving me alone. I rub my arms absentmindedly, trying to coax some warmth back into them. I rest my head against my knees, giving up on the possibility of ever feeling warm again.

An amusing, ironic thought comes to mind and an uncontrollable laugh escapes my lips. I had been saved by a_ vigilante_, a cat burglar. The hero of Gotham, the knight in shining armor, had been vacant from my entire hostage ordeal. While Batman, the _hero_, was dealing with the Joker in the ballroom, I was being saved by Catwoman, who is one of the "bad" guys.

I chuckle quietly, grasping my sides as the quiet laughter refuses to end. I've always been told not to trust the criminals, the _vigilantes_. It's my job to cure them, not befriend them. It had been my job to turn them in as soon as I realized who they were or what they had become. But I didn't, and they had continued to be my, an Arkham Asylum psychiatrist's, best friends. I burst into silent giggles. My friends, these _bad _people, have done more for me than Batman ever has. The thought is just so incredibly _funny_.

I wipe my eyes, beginning to regain my composure. A sound from further down the garage startles me and I stand up on impulse. There's a loud, familiar cackle, then the sound of growled words that I can't quite make out. There's a muffled thump against something that sounds vaguely metallic, high pitched laughter, then the sound of something close to that of a punch. Curious, but oddly not afraid, I creep slowly towards the right side of the parking lot and hide behind one of the large concrete pillars.

"Look at you _go_!" the Joker exclaims giddily from his stance in front of the giant hunk of black metal that is undoubtedly the Batmobile. Batman's fist comes down hard against the Joker's face and I almost flinch, feeling the pain of the powerful blow. "It's too bad about Harley. I really _liked_ that one." Batman's fist connects with Joker's jaw, snapping his head to the right. The Joker lets out a high pitched cackle, enjoying the rise he's getting out of Batman.

"You let an _innocent_ doctor die. Even to a guy like me, that's cold." He lets out a sharp bark of laughter as Batman throws him to the ground. Batman hovers over him and punches him hard and I watch as the Joker's head bounces off of the pavement. He rolls to the side, laughing hysterically, one arm holding his reverberating stomach.

Batman comes in for another hit, but I've seen enough. "You aren't doing me any favors," I call, stepping out from behind the pillars and walking towards them.

"_Harley_?" the Joker drawls with a gasp of air between laughs. "What a nice _surprise._"

"You said your men threw her off the roof," Batman growls.

"Oh, they did," I inform him. "Lucky for me, you aren't the only one in this city with a grappling hook." I kneel down next to the Joker, examining his bruised and bloody face for a moment. "Lift your head," I tell him. "_Someone_ might've given you a concussion." Funny enough, I don't find myself too incredibly angry at the clown in front of me. It's his job to wreak havoc and hold hostages. I'll admit that I'm a little hurt that he pulled this stunt on me but, as strange as it sounds, I don't think he actually meant to hurt me.

"Looks like you're having a bad day, doc," he muses, lifting his head up. I run my fingers along the back of his head, probing for any dents, bumps, or abnormalities. His skin is oddly warm, I notice, and he feels, well... human. It still doesn't cease to surprise me that beneath the madness, he has flesh and bones and body heat just like everyone else. I don't why it's still surprising. Had I really expected him to feel any different after tonight?

"You can say that again," I mumble. "You don't have a concussion," I inform him, removing my hands from the back of his head.

"If someone saved you from falling off of the roof, how did they manage to subdue the henchmen and get to you in time?" Batman questions in a raspy growl.

"We fought them off before I was thrown off the building," I retort, standing up. "Didn't you notice the unconscious bodies on the roof, or did you not even bother to check?"

"One was missing," he replies firmly. "They were robbed and two were dead-"

"So you just assumed that one of the henchmen shot and killed two of his friends and managed to subdue three other _armed_ clowns?" I finish incredulously. "And did you _assume_ that the bloodstain, and my body for that matter, had just disappeared from the sidewalk ten stories down?"

The Joker chuckles at my remark and stands up, brushing the dust off of his purple coat. "She's got a point there, Bats," he muses.

"Shut it, clown," Batman growls. "No, that's not what I-"

"I thought you were supposed to be some sort of great detective," I shoot at him pointedly. "You always manage to upstage the police force."

"Who saved you?" he questions, ignoring my previous remark. I cross my arms and open my mouth to reply with something sarcastic, but someone else beats me to it.

"I did," Selina announces from behind us. "It's a good thing I showed up when I did, otherwise you'd be in deep. You better be glad it was me who showed up and not Pam, because if Pam had been here," she lets out a short laugh at the thought, "you both would have been done for."

"It was you?" Batman repeats, glancing from me to her. "_You_ saved her?"

"_Mm-hmm_. Come on, Harley, I've got the car waiting."

"There's a swarm of police outside, they'll never let you through," Batman interjects.

"I've got it taken care of," she replies smoothly. "Don't you worry your cowl covered head."

"Take him to Arkham," I tell Batman sternly, nodding towards the Joker. "Unless, of course, you think he's faking insanity. You of all people should know," I challenge, following Selina down the garage.

"Goodnight, _Harley_," the Joker calls with a cackle. His tone is light and almost... gleeful, and I can't help but get the impression that maybe he's happy that I'm still alive. The laughter fades from behind me as Selina leads me down the ramp to the second sublevel, where my car has noticeably been changed.

There's a police decal attached to the side and a set of lights on the top, not to mention my license plates are missing. I'm tempted to ask Selina where she got all of this, but I'm not so sure that I want to know the answer. "They won't suspect a thing," Selina assures me with a smile.

* * *

"Thanks," I tell Selina as she pulls into the parking garage of my building. Normally, I don't park in the underground garage, it's too much of a hassle in my opinion. I prefer parking out front where I don't have to pull up and press a button to leave or enter a code to get in. However, I'm sure it would seem a little suspicious to be seen talking to someone dressed in cat suit out in the parking lot. Not to mention that I'm covered in blood and probably look pretty banged up.

"No problem, I couldn't have saved you if you hadn't have saved me from that gunman earlier," she points out with a smile. "Let's go inside and I'll make you something warm to eat. It's freezing outside, you're probably close to getting pneumonia at this point."

"That's nice of you," I tell her, toying with one of the seams on my dress. "But I'd really like to be alone tonight." Did wanting to be alone make me a bad friend? She had just saved my life and got me undetected out of the building. I feel bad about it, but I'd be too distracted with her in the apartment to wrap my thoughts around tonight. Besides taking a shower and having a cup of coffee, all I want to do is wrap my head around things.

"Are you sure?" she asks worriedly. "You just had a really terrible night, Harls. Are you sure being alone is the best thing?"

"I'm sure. You can take my car to your apartment," I offer. "I just need it back around seven thirty tomorrow so I'm not late for work. I'll drop you off at your place when you bring it over," I assure her.

Selina looks at me with an expression of disbelief. "You're going to work tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I reply with a shrug. Why wouldn't I? Terrible things happen all the time at the asylum, it's not like I'm just going to take a free day because of it. What good would it do me to sit around all day and cry or obsess over tonight's events? Besides, I have a strong enough hunch that Batman doesn't think that the Joker is faking insanity and I need to be there for his first day back at Arkham.

"Harley, you were just thrown off of a building," she tells me slowly, allowing it sink in. "You _killed_ a man. You had to do it, I'm not say you were wrong to, but that's got to take some kind of toll on you."

"Well, hopefully no one but you, the Joker's goons, and I know about that," I reply. "I doubt that the goons will tell anyone. And even if Batman has a hunch that I personally killed one of them, I don't think he'll tell anyone either, considering he let me fall from a ten story building and all."

"Harley, you can't run from this. They marked you off of the guest list, you paid for a parking ticket."

"I dropped in for a few minutes just to say hello and then I left," I tell her. "I wasn't feeling good so I just dropped by to be polite. I stayed in all night after that. If they ask about the car, I'll say that I lent it to you for the night after I got home because your motorcycle was having problems starting."

"How are they going to explain the broken window on the fifth floor?"

"The workers were careless, I don't know!" I exclaim. "How am I going to explain that _Catwoman_ saved me from falling to my death? How am I going to be able to explain why the Joker picked me, of all people, to put on the roof? How's that going to look?" I demand. "It's going to look like I'm aspiring with a bunch of criminals. They're going to realize that Catwoman is one of my friends, Sel, and when they do it's going to lead back to you." I rub the side of my head agitatedly, a migraine throbbing angrily against the side of my skull.

"Not to mention the truth will completely ruin Batman's entire image, it'll make him look careless and unprofessional. The world will hate him for it, they'll realize that he might not be all that he's cracked up to be. They'll turn him into a monster, like they make everyone who makes a mistake or does something wrong out to be. Gotham doesn't _need_ that, they don't need another person to turn against. Even if the man didn't save me, he doesn't deserve the world to turn on him, he doesn't need his mask to be ripped off," I finish. "Gotham doesn't _deserve_ to be heroless because of one _bad_ day."

Selina looks at me warily, studying my face carefully. "Alright, Harley. If you really think that's best, I'll go along with it, but I really don't think that you should be alone tonight, or go to work tomorrow. I think you need to stay home and rest."

"I'll be fine," I assure her, opening the car door. "Thanks, again."

"Harley, I don't really don't feel comfortable taking your car," she tells me. "I'm going to change right quick and give you back the keys."

"How are you going to get home?"

"I'll call a taxi," she assures me. "Just give me a second." I step out of the car and shut the door, allowing her some privacy. She emerges from the car a few minutes later in a black coat and black pants, her bag slung over her shoulder.

"Do you have cab money?" I ask her, opening my small purse. "I think I've got twenty dollars in here."

"It's fine Harls, _really_. Just go upstairs and go to bed," she instructs, handing me back my car keys. "Call me in the morning, if you get a chance. Oh, and be sure to pick up the phone tomorrow night, Pam's going to want the 411 when she gets back."

"Where did she go?"

"She went down to Metropolis to negotiate some important deal. I think she said something about an incredibly rare plant that she's going to exchange some toxins for. Although, she might be stealing it. You never know with Pam," she replies with a smile. "_Goodnight_, Harley."

"Goodnight, Selina." I walk over to the service elevator, glancing back to see her talking on her cell phone. The elevator takes me up to the fifth floor where thankfully no one's in the hallway. I escape to the confinement of my small apartment and breathe in a sigh of relief. _It's going to be okay, Harley, it's all going to be okay._

I kick my heels off by the door and drop my purse onto the side table. I step into the living room, chaotic thoughts not yet ambushing my mind. I head towards the coffee maker, but something in the living room stops me.

Propped up against the wall, underneath the Joker's painting, is a bazooka with a big red bow on top.

I walk over to it warily and pluck the tag off of it. _Merry Christmas, Harley. –J_. The Joker had bought me a bazooka for Christmas. I laugh quietly to myself for a moment, then realize that he must've put this here right after I left for the party. If that was the case, then he knew, or was under the assumption, that I would be coming home tonight in one piece.

I shake my head, too tired to even try and analyze that move. I pick up the bazooka cautiously, examining it for a moment, and then hide it in the hall closet. _The Joker bought me a bazooka,_ I think to myself for the millionth time as I wander into my bathroom.

After a quick shower, I throw myself into bed, falling asleep before my head even hits the pillow. That night, I sleep better than I have in the past four months.


End file.
